Baldur's Gate II Throne of Bhaal (7 page)

“I walk the land again,” Sarevok admitted, “though I do not truly live. Not in any real sense of the word. I have

substance, I have form. I can feel and inflict pain. But I am not a creature of flesh and blood as you are, Abdel. I am but an apparition made solid. This armor is my body, the cold scrape of metal is the closest I will ever get to the touch of warm flesh.”

“That is not my concern, Sarevok. I have done what you asked. Now you must fulfill your promise. Tell me about the other Bhaalspawn. Tell me how I may purge myself of this taint.”

“I do not know how you may free yourself from the Lord of Murder’s blood, Abdel,” Sarevok replied. “I never promised you that.”

“I knew he was not to be trusted!” Jaheira’s shrill voice cut through the still air of the early morning. “He has lied to you, Abdel. He has tricked us again!”

Sarevok held up his hand, the palm of the black gauntlet facing outward, a sign for Jaheira to halt her outburst.

“I spoke the truth Abdel, I will deliver what I promised. I told you your destiny was tied to that of the other Children of Bhaal who still walk the land. I told you I could help you find them. I promised to lead you to your destiny.”

Abdel stood motionless in front of Sarevok, straining to prevent his muscles from instinctively grabbing for the sword on his back. “And what is this destiny, Sarevok?”

Again there was the grating shriek of metal on metal as Sarevok shrugged his mighty shoulders. “That I cannot say. Perhaps it is to rid yourself of Bhaal’s foul essence. Perhaps not. Maybe Melissan knows.”

“Melissan?” Abdel asked. “Who is she?”

“She is one who knows more about the Bhaalspawn then I do, Abdel Adrian. If anyone can remove the taint from your soul, it is she. And I know how to find her.”

“Then tell us where to find her and be on your way!” Jaheira cried out from the far side of the clearing.

The deep rumble of Sarevok’s mirthless laugh filled the forest. “Tell you? No, druid. I will do better than that. I will take you to her. My path is tied with that of your lover. I will be by his side every step of the way.”

Abdel took a step toward his half brother, his hand moving unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. “That wasn’t the deal, Sarevok!”

The armored man made no move to protect himself. “Strike me down if you wish, Abdel. I will not defend myself. But know if you do that you will never learn the secrets I can show you.”

The big sellsword’s hand slid slowly off the handle of his weapon. He turned and shared a look with Jaheira. There was anger in the half-elf’s violet eyes, but Abdel could tell she had come to the same realization he had. They had brought Sarevok back to life, and now they were stuck with him.

It was Imoen who finally broke the uncomfortable silence that was hanging over the clearing. “So now what?”

“Now we go to meet Melissan,” Sarevok replied. “In Saradush.”

The flames from the pit in the center of the temple burned low, casting an eerie red radiance around the room. In the faint light of the ebbing fire it was almost impossible to see the symbol carved into each of the six walls that made up the central chamber of the small building—a grinning gray skull with glowing eyes against a background of tears. The symbol of Bhaal.

Two shrouded figures stood waiting in the room, neither speaking. Although their robes hid their identities from view, the heavy cloaks did not cover them entirely. Fleeting glimpses of their true forms occasionally came into view with each subtle movement. The larger of the two shifted impatiently, revealing a glimpse of rough, scaly skin just barely visible beneath the shadows of his hood. There was the rasping sound of a slithering snake as he took a shuffling step, and his long, forked tongue flicked out once to taste the air to seek the presence of the others who had not yet arrived.

The second figure, slender and smaller than her companion, held up her hand to still his nervous fidgeting, her arm moving in a languid, graceful manner. The fingers were long and slender, delicate as those of any elf on the face of Faerun, but the complexion of her elf hand was the color of burnt ash. Only skin that had never seen the light of the surface world could look as pale and as dark, the skin of a creature from the Underdark, the skin of a drow.

The larger figure turned his cowled head quickly to the only door. A single reptilian eye reflected the dying embers of the fire as he did so.

A third cloaked figure strode into view, his hood pulled far down to cover his face. He was not as large as the first, but not as slender as the second. Like the drow, his powerful hands were visible beyond the edges of his long sleeves—though they were covered so completely with intricate tattoos and detailed markings it was impossible to even guess what the original color of this man’s skin had once been.

“I summoned you because events are moving quickly,” the new arrival announced once he had taken his place by the others.

The large one hissed, then pointed an accusatory clawed finger at the late comer. “You are not the leader of the Five! Why did Bhaal’s Anointed not summon us?”

“And where are the others?” the female added, her voice a smoky whisper in the flickering twilight.

“One is leading the siege of Saradush. Our fifth is dead, slain by Gorion’s ward.”

“Illasera?” There was a hint of regret in the reptilian voice.

The tattooed man nodded. “But revenge is soon at hand. Even now Abdel Adrian’s fate is sealed. Our trap has been set.”

Such veiled speech came naturally to all of the Five. Bhaal’s Anointed had trained them well; all their discussions were shrouded in cryptic phrasing and obscure syntax. For a cult born in the secrecy and shadows surrounding Bhaal’s death, vague references were more than mere idiosyncratic habit—they were a tool of survival. In the beginning the Five had been unknown, ignored by the outside world. With the spreading slaughter of the Bhaalspawn, the most powerful eyes in the kingdoms of the South were being focused on their plans.

The Five were not yet ready to accept such scrutiny. Their mission was still newborn, a frail infant easily slain. The prying eyes and ears of spies were a constant threat to the continued existence of both the Five and the achievement of their ultimate goal. They were ever conscious of the risk of scrying mages and clairvoyant wizards, even when gathered in their inner sanctum. There was no place that was truly safe, no place that could not be infiltrated by a cunning operative or pierced by the powerful divinations of a meddlesome spellcaster. Even here, in this long-abandoned temple of the Lord of Murder, a single false word, a name carelessly revealed or a plan foolishly exposed could give the enemies of the Five enough information to destroy them.

Illasera was dead, her name now meant nothing to the cause. But the identities of the Five who still lived—and of Bhaal’s Anointed, their leader—would not be spoken.

“One of our own has fallen,” the tattooed man announced. “We cannot wait for the others. We must perform the ritual before Illasera’s essence is lost.”

In perfect unison the three lifted their arms to the crumbling roof of Bhaal’s abandoned temple. Eyes locked on the floor, and their voices rose up in an ancient chant muffled by the hoods still drawn over their faces and the heavy, dank air of Bhaal’s shrine. Words of power tumbled from their lips, and the sputtering flames of the pit in the center of the room flared, arcing to the ceiling in response to the spell.

Heat erupted from the sudden inferno as leaping tongues of fire touched the corners of the room, bathing the gloomy temple in a blazing orange light. Insects and vermin foolish enough to have crept into the deserted ruin were incinerated, consumed by the burning intensity of a dead god’s magic unleashed by the Five.

Yet amidst the conflagration the three figures stood unharmed, protected by the sacred words of their dark litany. Oblivious to the heat and flame, they continued the

ancient ritual that had been passed down to them by the Anointed One—and passed down to the Anointed One by Bhaal himself.

The stench of death rolled out from the pit at the center of the room. Beneath the shooting flames the embers began to broil and churn. A banshee’s wail split the night, the tortured shriek of spirits drawn to the accursed shrine of Bhaal by the irresistible necromancy of the Five. Like wisps of smoke, the souls of the newly dead rose up from the pit.

At first they were but a few, wafting to the ceiling singly or in pairs, but as the incantation deepened, their numbers became legion. Ghosts who had not yet passed to the realms beyond the material world, apparitions of those who were barred from their promised afterlife, phantoms of people so recently deceased they were not even aware of their own demise. The fire in the pit—the fire of Bhaal, the fire of the Abyss—consumed them all, obliterating their existence, incinerating them, feeding itself on their essence until only the echo of their agonized screams remained.

As suddenly as the ritual had begun, it was over. The scorching heat and blazing light vanished, replaced once more by the damp cold and oppressive shadows of the abandoned Temple. The rising flames sputtered and winked out, leaving only the embers burning as feebly as the last vestiges of a dead god’s presence on the world.

“Illasera was not there.” Despite her efforts, the drow could not keep her voice from betraying her surprise and confusion.

“The Huntress had slain many of Bhaal’s children,” the reptilian one ventured. “Without the others, without the Anointed One, we may lack the strength to summon the essence of one as powerful as Illasera.”

“No, the ritual had power, the failure is not ours. Illasera’s essence is… gone.” The tattooed man spoke slowly, as if he was still pondering the implications of the statement he was making. “Someone else has swallowed her soul.”

“Gorion’sss ward hasss grown too ssstrong!” The voice of the scaled man was barely intelligible. His tongue flickered in and out with suppressed rage, and his words were nearly lost in an angry hiss.

“We should have dealt with him long ago,” the drow replied, her own voice husky with anger and fear.

“That fool’s fate is sealed,” the tattooed man assured them, though his own voice was shaky. “The Anointed One is leading him into certain death. We will seize the taint of Bhaal from the dying soul of Gorion’s ward and reclaim the essence of Illasera for our immortal master.”

The failed ritual had shaken the tattooed man. Like the Five, he was angry, confused, and afraid. He spoke with an explicit recklessness he would have shunned under normal circumstances. “Bhaal’s Anointed has assured me that Abdel Adrian will meet his end at Saradush!”

***

Bhaal’s Anointed, favored servant of the Lord of Murder, awoke from the nightmare bathed in sweat, biting back screams of torment at the last possible second.

The dream was always the same. Fire. Not the sweet sacrificial flames that devoured victims during the glory of Bhaal’s reign, though the perfume scent of boiling blood and the aroma of roasting flesh were ever present in the dream.

No, the conflagration within the nightmare was a blaze of unbearable agony, of eternal pain that even now did not abate. The flames of the anointing, the inescapable memory of the agonizing baptism of mutilating, disfiguring fire. With each recurrence of the vivid nightmare, Bhaal’s Anointed had to relive once more the torment of the ritual that had changed the favored worshiper of the

Lord of Murder from mere follower to Bhaal’s Anointed, to serve as guardian of the terrible ceremonies that could lead to a dead god’s rebirth.

The Anointed One let out a shuddering breath but otherwise stayed motionless as the terrible dream slowly faded back into the mists of repressed trauma. Those who slept or stood guard nearby, the fools who had no idea of the true identity of the dark figure within their midst, had not noticed their companion’s reaction.

Bhaal was dead, his followers lost and scattered, or swallowed up into the ranks of Cyric’s rapidly expanding flock. Though the Lord of Murder was dead, Bhaal’s Anointed knew he was also very much still alive in the world. Soon the ritual of ascension would begin, and the Lord of Murder would be born anew. And all Faerun would pay for the suffering Bhaal’s Anointed had been forced to endure.

The early years after Bhaal’s demise had been the most difficult. Hunted by the fanatical followers of mad Cyric, the mortal who had supplanted the dead god’s position in the pantheon, those still faithful to Bhaal had been forced to flee. Their own servants and followers turned on them, throwing their allegiance behind Cyric in a pathetic attempt to save their own lives and salvage their positions within the new order. Bereft of allies, Bhaal’s Anointed and the rest of the faithful were forced to abandon their castles and slaves and live like fugitives as the might and power of Bhaal’s worshipers was obliterated from the face of Faerun.

Many went into hiding, reinventing their identities as a shield against their god’s numerous enemies. Clerics who once counted on the protection and might of the priestly magic granted by their dark god were forced to turn to other methods for their survival. Even though Bhaal’s worshipers could no longer call down the wrath of their god upon their enemies, the worshipers were not without power.

The true believers had learned much at Bhaal’s feet. They knew how to survive. They studied the arts of sorcery, replacing divine spells with arcane magics. They sought out the leaders and rulers of the Southlands under false pretenses, sowing the seeds of future alliances. Always working from within the shadows, the faithful cultivated their own political power by learning the darkest secrets of the influential few who shaped the events of Faerun, then using those secrets without conscience to further their own goals.

None were so skilled in these dark lessons as Bhaal’s Anointed. Deception. Lies. Manipulation. Ruthless cunning. In many ways these abilities surpassed that which had been lost: the fierce power of a dark god’s unholy magic.

Inevitably, the fortunes of Bhaal’s Anointed had risen once more—though few, if any, knew the true identity of the Anointed One. During this time the fortunes of the Bhaalspawn also rose. Driven by the divine essence within, the Bhaalspawn began to rise to prominence up and down the Sword Coast. They attained positions of power and influence in Amn and Tethyr. They attracted followers throughout Calimshan. The first step of Bhaal’s return had begun.