“It hardly matters now,” Abdel finally answered, his voice weary. “If Sarevok is the traitor, I suspect he retreated with the rest of the army. I doubt we will run into him again. We have to focus on the task at hand. Tell me about the Five, Melissan.”

  When Melissan hesitated, Abdel pressed his case. “I proved myself by risking my own life to slay Yaga Shura. Surely you realize that I have no desire to bring Bhaal back to life. If you expect me to aid your cause, you must tell me everything you know about the Five.”

  Tilting her head to the side, Melissan seemed to be weighing Abdel’s words, balancing the risks of revealing too much against the rewards of obtaining Abdel’s help.

  “Please, Melissan,” Imoen implored, “I’ve known Abdel my whole life. He’s a good man. You can trust him to do the right thing.”

  The tall woman gave the younger girl a warm smile. “Very well, child. I will tell you both what I know about the Five, and you will understand why I was not surprised to see the dragon joining the battle against us.”

  “Please, Abdel, come with us,” Imoen begged. “Melissan will take us both to the monastery at Amkethran. She has promised that Balthazar, the leader of the monks there, will hide us. They’ll protect us from the Five while we rest and regroup.”

  Her brother shook his head. “You go with her now. I’ll catch up later after I find Jaheira.”

  Imoen couldn’t bring herself to say the awful fact they both knew to be true. But Melissan was not afraid to speak the words.

  “Your lover is dead, Abdel Adrian. You cannot save her.”

  Abdel strapped the large, heavy blade he had claimed from the armory of Saradush across his back. “If I cannot save her, then I will avenge her death.”

  “You intend to slay a dragon by yourself?” Melissan demanded. “Perhaps several of them?”

  “If I have to.”

  “What about Abazigal?” Imoen asked. “Their Bhaalspawn master Melissan told us about? What if he’s waiting for you, using Jaheira as bait to lure you to his lair?”

  “I’ve already killed two of the Five. I don’t see why a third should be any different. In fact, killing this one should be easier. If Melissan is right this wizard doesn’t share Yaga Shura’s immunity to conventional weapons.”

  “All the information I have gathered seems to indicate that you and Yaga Shura were the only Children of Bhaal to have such remarkable invulnerabilities,” Melissan admitted. “But just because it is physically possible to run Abazigal through with an ordinary sword does not mean he will give you that chance.

  “Your confidence is admirable, but foolish,” Melissan warned. “Have you not been listening to what I have said? Abazigal is a master of both dragons and sorcery. Unlike Yaga Shura and Illasera, he is not merely some warrior you can hack down with your sword.”

  “Killing wizards is hard work,” Abdel admitted as he pulled on a pair of sturdy boots that were at least two sizes too small. His own clothing had been incinerated by the dragon’s fire, but Melissan had managed to find him a shirt and breeches that fit his enormous frame—barely. “But Abazigal won’t be the first mage whose plans I’ve thwarted.”

  He stood up and gave Imoen a hug. Over her shoulder he could see out into the streets of Saradush. Already the survivors were beginning the task of rebuilding their city, clearing away the debris and bodies that littered their ruined streets.

  “Imoen, you stay with Melissan,” he instructed his sibling. “Don’t do anything stupid like trying to follow me, you’ll just get in the way. I’ll meet up with you later. I promise.”

  “Abazigal is far more powerful than the wizard you defeated at the Tree of Life,” Melissan cautioned as the big sellsword headed toward the door. “Irenicus lusted to be immortal, but he did not have the blood of a god coursing through his veins. Do not discount Abazigal’s status as one of the Five. He is the son of Bhaal himself.”

  Abdel slung a large pack of provisions over his right shoulder. “And so am I.”

  Driven by urgency and fueled by his immortal blood, Abdel didn’t even stop to rest the first day. Even so, he could not traverse the ground as quickly as a dragon in flight. The lost time galled him, but Abdel couldn’t move any faster. In fact, as weariness set in he was forced to slow his pace. Though his stops were few and far between, even the son of a god needed to rest.

  Tracking the dragon was easy. Everywhere the creature passed, it left an indelible impression on both the landscape and the minds of the people fortunate enough to witness the spectacle and survive. The creature was flying almost due south. At first, Abdel suspected it was headed for the dense woods of the Forest of Mir. There the trees grew so thick, it was said, that the light of the sun never touched the forest floor. In many places the trunks grew so close together it was impossible for either man or beast to pass—or so Abdel had heard. In fact, everything he knew about the Forest of Mir was hearsay and legend. Eyewitness accounts were exceedingly rare, as few who ever entered the dark wood ever emerged again.

  Abdel hoped the creature wasn’t heading into the deepest recesses of those accursed woods. The sellsword wasn’t afraid of whatever monsters might lurk within the trees, but he was worried that the tales of vast stretches of thick, virtually impassable growth were true. If he had to constantly hack his way through branches, roots, and thickets in his pursuit of the dragon the already slim hope of arriving in time to save Jaheira would become even fainter.

  By the middle of the third day Abdel realized the dragon wasn’t heading for the Mir Forest. The near edge of the wood was now a half day’s march to the west, but the creature’s path had not veered from its southerly course. Calling upon the long-buried memories of the maps he had been forced to study in his lessons at Candlekeep, Abdel made an educated guess as to where the beast was heading. It was probably heading toward the Alimir Mountains on the coast of the Shining Sea, a small range located a tenday’s journey south of Saradush.

  It was there, Abdel guessed, that the beast had made its lair. It was there he would confront the Bhaalspawn Abazigal, and it was there, Abdel hoped, he would find Jaheira.

  Part of his mind knew his half-elf lover had left this world, but Abdel refused to consciously acknowledge that part of himself. Against all logic and reason, he still harbored the faint hope that somehow, someway he would find Jaheira alive. If he didn’t, the small corner of his mind he refused to acknowledge vowed that he would extract a gruesome vengeance.

  Abdel pressed onward, his thoughts a churning maelstrom of improbable hope and despair and violent images of retribution. His being was focused on the goal before him, and he was oblivious to the man pursuing him.

  A half day’s march behind the determined sellsword, an immense figure in dark plate mail followed Abdel’s path. Sarevok had picked up Abdel’s trail on the plains outside the ruins of Saradush, and he had been tracking him ever since.

  The relentless pace of his half-brother kept Sarevok from closing the distance between them, but the armored warrior shared enough of Abdel’s blood and physical prowess to keep himself from falling farther behind. Sarevok knew his brother sought revenge for the female druid’s death. Sarevok also knew Abdel was heading to a confrontation with another of the Five that might very well end Abdel’s existence, and Sarevok was determined to be there when the confrontation took place.

  Even now, long after the ritual had ended, the flames in the pit at the center of the abandoned temple burned high and hot, fuelled by the essence of the countless Bhaalspawn slaughtered in the sacking of Saradush. The orange light of the fire reflected off the walls, giving the painting of Bhaal’s grinning gray skull on the wall a hideous glow and bathing the entire room in its ghastly illumination.

  The three cowled figures huddled in the farthest corner of the temple. Conditioned by years of operating in hiding and secrecy, they were still loathe to let the revealing light of Bhaal’s ceremonial fire touch their hooded forms.

  “The blaze has never been so strong,” the smallest of the figures whispered, brushing a strand of silver-white hair from her dark skin. Of the three, the light bothered the drow most of all. Extremely young by elf standards, most of her thirty years of life had been spent among the blackness of the Underdark where the only illumination was the diseased glow of pale lichens. Recruited by the Anointed One several years ago to join the Five, the drow still found bright light painfully uncomfortable.

  “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 us 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 drow’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 deliciously 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 Faerûn. 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.