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 Faerûn… 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.

  “What I do know,” Melissan continued, “is that the Five wield great political influence within Faerûn, though they always do so behind the scenes. They keep themselves hidden in the shadows, working toward a single purpose. They manipulate others into following them and serving them through lies and deceit. Entire armies have now fallen under control of the Five, though most of the troops and generals do not even realize who they are really working for.”

  “And what do these Five hope to accomplish?” Abdel asked.

  “The Five are a secret society fanatically devoted to bringing their dead father back to life by slaughtering their siblings.”

  Abdel hesitated before asking his next question. Everyone else seemed to understand what Melissan was saying, and the big sellsword was reluctant to expose his own ignorance, but he needed to understand. More than anything he had been told before, this was something he had to comprehend in every detail.

  “How will killing Bhaal’s other children bring him back?”

  “Within each offspring of the Lord of Murder there exists a divine essence,” Melissan explained patiently, “a small piece of Bhaal’s own essence. In some of his progeny there exists but a faint flicker. In others it burns like an unholy blaze.

  “Whenever one of Bhaal’s children perishes,” Melissan continued, “that bit of his father’s divine, yet tainted, spirit is released. The Five seek to collect the scattered essence of their father’s soul bit by bit, drawing the tiny embers together until they have built a burning pyre from which Bhaal himself will be reborn.”

  Sarevok, who had been standing silently off to the side, added his own emotionless voice to the conversation. “You know what Melissan says is possible, Abdel. To a lesser degree, you have already experienced it. When you ended my first life in the caverns beneath Baldur’s Gate you unconsciously absorbed my essence—and you moved a small step beyond a mere mortal existence. When we met again, you willingly sacrificed a small part of that divine spirit to bring me back to life and give me a second chance.”

  It all made sense. Abdel had not always had his remarkable healing powers. The more he thought about it, the more Abdel realized they had manifested themselves only after Sarevok’s death by his hands. He couldn’t help but wonder if he had unknowingly taken some of Imoen’s immortal essence. When she had been transformed into the avatar of Bhaal by the wizard Jon Irenicus, Abdel had fought and defeated Imoen’s hideous demon form. In doing so he might have absorbed much of the young woman’s tainted essence. That would explain why he had become so powerful, while Imoen still seemed… normal.

  While Abdel was wrestling with the implications of what he had been told, Jaheira continued to question Melissan.

  “You seem to know an awful lot about this,” she said, her voice more than slightly accusatory in tone. “How are you involved, Melissan?”

  “I, too, have heard the prophecies,” the tall woman in black explained, “Like the Five, I know Alaundo’s words and what they foretell. I have dedicated my life to preventing Bhaal’s return to this world—as any sane person would.

  “For many years I fought an invisible enemy. I suspected a group of Bhaal’s offspring would unite their powers to bring about his rebirth, but I could find no evidence such a cult existed. Only in the past few years have I been able to confirm the rumors and my suspicions. And now I will do everything in my power to thwart them in their mad quest.”

  Jaheira said nothing. It appeared to Abdel she was mulling over Melissan’s words, trying to find some fault or lie in them. Eventually the half-elf gave up and turned her attention to Sarevok.

  “You don’t seem surprised to hear all this.”

  How his half-elf lover was able to judge anything about the reactions of the stoic Sarevok was a mystery to Abdel, though his half-brother’s response did seem to indicate Jaheira’s instincts had been correct.

  “I have heard this tale before, druid. Several years ago, from Melissan herself.”

  “It is true,” Melissan admitted, cutting off Jaheira before she could comment. “When I first learned the Five were more than just a dark shadow in my own imagination, I sought out allies to my cause—those who had a vested interest in stopping the Bhaalspawn before they became powerful enough to orchestrate this campaign of murder that has now swept the land.”

  “You went looking for other Bhaalspawn to fight against the Five,” Imoen interjected.

  “Precisely, my child. Who better to aid me against the Lord of Murder’s children than one of Bhaal’s own progeny? At the time, of course, you and Abdel were still unknown to me. The scribes of Candlekeep had done well in burying your history and wiping your very existence from all records.

  “But I knew of another who was quickly gaining power and fame, whose name was whispered with fear and awe by the darkest, most vile criminals of the Sword Coast. A young man named Sarevok.”

  “Melissan approached me,” Sarevok said, picking up the story in his deep monotone. “She told me of my heritage, and all its implications. She hoped to persuade me to work with her for my own self-preservation, if for no other reason. But I was already consumed by the dark taint within my own soul. Instead of joining her against the Five, I vowed I would be the one to bring Bhaal back to the mortal realm myself.

  “And so I plotted a war between Nashkel and Baldur’s Gate, and when I learned of Abdel’s existence, I was determined to kill my half-brother and take his essence to augment my own power.”

  There was a long pause once Sarevok finished. Melissan resumed speaking to fill the almost accusatory silence. “That is the danger of having allies who are born of evil itself. They will often betray you. I have had to re-learn this lesson many, many times.”

  Jaheira spoke up in an angry voice. “So you knew all this!” she declared, pointing a finger at Sarevok. “You could have just told us this, without bringing us into this besieged town!”

  “I could have told you this tale,” Sarevok answered slowly, “but would any of you have believed me?”

  The silence of Abdel and his companions was answer enough.

  “Whatever the circumstances of your arrival, I am glad you are here now,” Melissan said solemnly. “From what Sarevok has told me, you may be the only one who can save us from the army outside. They are led by a warrior named Yaga Shura.”

  “Yaga Shura?” For some reason, Abdel felt the name signified more than the leader of an army. The name had power within it.

  “Yaga Shura is one of the Five,” Melissan explained. “Like you, he is a child of Bhaal. Like you, he burns with the essence of your immortal father.

  “Abdel,” Melissan whispered, “you can save us from Yaga Shura.”

  Abdel honestly didn’t know what he was going to do. He was drowning in the flood of information Melissan had poured forth. Her tale ran through his head in bits and pieces as he tried to bring some order to the chaos within his own mind.

  “This is madness,” Jaheira insisted. “This cannot be the way to free yourself from Bhaal’s taint! More bloodshed is not the answer.”

  Dozens of Bhaalspawn had been slaughtered by the armies who secretly and unknowingly served the Five, and countless more had been killed in the riots and panic the Five had sown across Faerûn. The children of Bhaal had fled in terror, seeking a savior, seeking sanctuary. They found Melissan.

  Or rather, Melissan found them, and she led them all to Saradush.

  “We can avoid this battle, Abdel,” Imoen said, adding her support to Jaheira’s sentiment. “I found a way to sneak us into this town, big brother, and I can find a way to sneak us out.”

  Many of the Bhaalspawn who followed Melissan were lowly commoners, everyday folk swept up in a storm they could never have imagined. If these were the only ones who had sought sanctuary in Saradush, perhaps Melissan could have succeeded in hiding them. Perhaps she could have kept them safe.

  But others had come: powerful, influential figures, political and military leaders—even a high-ranking general in the army of Calimshan. When Gromnir and a company of his loyal troops marched to Saradush and demanded sanctuary, the predatory eyes of the Five were drawn with them.