"I assure you, mighty Saladrex, this alliance will be beneficial to both Bhaal and the dragons. As the offspring of both parties I will look after the interests of each side fairly."

  Saladrex snorted. "Perhaps you speak the truth, but we few gathered here are not enough. We will need to recruit other dragons to the cause. The ancient reds will need to join us before others will agree, and they will be loath to follow you. None of my ilk will trust a mongrel half-breed."

  Abazigal bowed his head respectfully, accepting the insult as the truth it was. "I shall not always be a mongrel," he said softly. "When my father is reborn, he will grant me any boon I request. And I shall ask of him to make me into a true dragon of pure blood."

  There was laughter from the assembled dragons, and Abazigal kept his head bowed, unable to face the humiliation of their mockery. Saladrex was not laughing.

  "If Bhaal truly understands the majesty of dragons," the green wyrm whispered beneath the roaring mirth of the others, speaking so that only Abazigal could hear, "he may indeed grant your wish. Seek me out when you have the pure blood of a true dragon, and I will join your cause. Together, we will unite the others."

  His heart bursting with gratitude and relief, Abazigal raised his head—but Saladrex was already gone, his powerful wings flapping as he rose up into the morning sky. The other dragons, still laughing at the half-breed who would become one of them, also took flight.

  Their beating wings stirred up great clouds of dust and dirt and created powerful whirlwinds and eddies that battered Abazigal's body. The half-dragon held his ground, determined not to show any weakness in the face of those he would call his peers. He stood in the same spot long after the dragons had vanished, the promise of Saladrex repeated over and over in his jubilant mind.

  * * * * *

  It was late afternoon on the fourth day when Abdel finally reached the northern tip of the Alimir Mountains. Here the trail of the young dragon that had fled with Jaheira grew cold. There were no witnesses to the beast's passing in this remote, inhospitable region, no trees or grasses flattened by the great winds that traveled in the wake of its flight to indicate the wyrm's direction.

  Here in the foothills there was only hard stone, baked by the sun and carved by the winds of the centuries. The full range of the Alimir Mountains stretched far to the south, extending well beyond the limits of Abdel's vision. If the beast made its lair deep within the range, Abdel might never find it, or his lover.

  Melissan had told him the creature worked for Abazigal, and Abazigal was one of the Five. He had to maintain frequent contact with the others in his covert group to help orchestrate their war to eradicate the Bhaalspawn. It would be necessary for the wizard to keep himself appraised of events in the lands beyond the edges of his mountain kingdom, and this task would be made simplest if Abazigal located his enclave in the northernmost reaches of the range. It was only logical to assume Abazigal's pet, as Abdel believed the young red dragon that had taken Jaheira to be, would also have made its lair in the northern tip of the range.

  Still, Abdel knew scaling the dozens of peaks and spires within even a single day's march would take weeks, if not months. A pointless endeavor. Fortunately, Abdel had devised a plan. He had no doubt Abazigal would employ his young flying lizard in a number of capacities—messenger, transportation, reconnaissance, martial reinforcement. All Abdel had to do was wait for the beast to appear again on one of its many missions and spy on it as it returned to its lair. Once he knew which peak the beast made its home on, Abdel could ascend to his vengeance.

  He scouted until he found a small cave—somewhere he could bed down for the night and be out of sight but still be able to emerge quickly when he heard the unmistakable flapping of a dragon's wings. He also needed somewhere with clear sight lines of the numerous peaks dotting the horizon, so that he could track the flight of his quarry. Satisfied his location met all of his requirements, Abdel retreated inside and waited.

  Night fell, but Abdel didn't sleep. While marching, even Abdel had needed to stop and rest for an hour or so each day, but now that he was merely keeping vigil, the physical specimen that was Bhaal's avatar had no need to sleep or rest. Alert and anxious, Abdel watched and waited, and with every passing second he knew the already minuscule chances of finding Jaheira alive were growing smaller.

  Close to midnight he heard a sound, something searching the area outside his cave. It wasn't a dragon—this intruder was much smaller. Abdel crept to the entrance of his makeshift lair, his movements silent. The big sellsword had no intention of revealing himself. He didn't want to risk an encounter that could alert Abazigal or the wyrm to his presence. Abdel only wanted to see who was scuffling across the nearby rocks.

  In the light of the full moon, Abdel could make out a single dark silhouette—a giant of a man in heavy armor adorned with savage spikes and lethal blades forged onto the metal plates. At the sight of the half brother who had betrayed him at Saradush, all thoughts of concealment and discretion vanished, replaced by a hatred so primal Abdel could only scream a single name to express his fury.

  "Sarevok!"

  The armored man turned to meet the sellsword's reckless charge, batting away the thrusting sword seeking to plunge itself into a vulnerable spot between the impenetrable iron plates. Abdel's body crashed into Sarevok's, driving them both down.

  They rolled on the ground, Sarevok wrapping his arms in a bear hug around Abdel's own, pinning the sellsword's limbs to his side and preventing Abdel from using his sword to hack through his half brother's protective iron shell.

  Abdel twisted his body, trying to break free of Sarevok's grip and bring his weapon to bear. As they grappled, he felt the blades on his opponent's shins and forearms slicing through his flesh again and again. Each time the wounds healed instantly, but the incessant pain enraged Abdel further.

  Sarevok still possessed inhuman strength, but Abdel knew that the power he had gained with Yaga Shura's death had made him physically superior to any foe—even this brother who shared Bhaal's blood. But he couldn't break Sarevok's grip. The armored man had better leverage, and he had locked his left fist around his right wrist, making his hands virtually impossible to separate.

  Still, Abdel refused to give up. He bucked and thrashed, throwing his entire weight from side to side. A smaller man would have been flung around like a rag doll, but Sarevok's own great size allowed him to counter Abdel's throes. Eventually though, Abdel knew, his enemy would tire. Or his grip would slip, and Abdel would be free to hack his half brother into trembling, quivering bits.

  Sarevok was holding on for dear life, trying to speak, but Abdel wasn't about to listen to any more of his half brother's lies. Heedless of the pain and injury he was about to inflict on his own body, Abdel smashed his forehead against Sarevok's visor. It was a desperate move, a ploy he had used to great effect in many a bar brawl when his hands had been restricted. Abdel soon learned that head butting a foe with a full iron visor did not produce the same results.

  Again and again Abdel slammed his own head against the metal faceplate, his nose breaking in a burst of blood then healing just in time to be broken once more as Abdel banged his head against Sarevok's armor over and over.

  The taste of his own blood did little to cool Abdel's wrath, but Sarevok would not be shaken free. For nearly an hour the two combatants struggled against each other, locked in the unbreakable embrace. Pushing their bodies to the point of exhaustion, each warrior strained against one of the only other beings on Faerun able to match their own immense strength. Finally, Abdel's remarkable regenerative powers came into play.

  Sarevok's cramping fingers lost their hold, the locking grip of his bear hug slipped. Bringing his arms up, Abdel was able to push himself away from Sarevok and spring to his feet. His armored foe, muscles heavy and weary from the prolonged struggle, lay motionless on the rocky ground. Had Sarevok been human and not some specter given corporal form, Abdel imagined, he would have been panting and gasping for breath. Sarevok might as well have been a dead thing. He looked no more than an inanimate suit of plate mail on the ground.

  Abdel slowly raised his sword, intending to take back the existence he had granted his hated half brother. The savage rage was gone, it had slipped away during the protracted, exhausting battle to free himself from Sarevok's grip. Now Abdel moved with the measured actions of a man bent on finishing a long, hard task.

  "I cannot defeat you, Abdel," Sarevok admitted in a cold monotone. "We have both seen that the injuries my armor accidentally inflicted upon you during our struggle were inconsequential. I am at your mercy, brother."

  Almost against his own will, Abdel's hand had stayed at the sound of Sarevok's voice. Realizing he was hesitating, he tensed his muscles to deliver the killing blow.

  "At least grant me the satisfaction of knowing why you slay me now," Sarevok asked, his voice completely devoid of emotion.

  Despite himself, Abdel answered. "You dare ask such a question? After betraying us at Saradush?"

  The armored helm, splattered and stained with the blood from Abdel's repeatedly broken nose, moved slightly from side to side. "I am no traitor, Abdel. If you do not believe me, strike now and end my return to this physical plane. But if you want to learn the truth, set aside your sword."

  Abdel raised the blade up above his head but did not thrust it home. His mind churned and spun, too tired to deal with another dilemma of who to trust. Unable to decide if his suspicions about Sarevok were justified, Abdel could not bring himself to strike. In disgust he let the sword slip from his grasp to clatter on the stones at his feet.

  The sheen of sweat on his muscles caused him to shiver as a chill gust of wind blew across his body. Abdel collapsed in frustration beside his brother.

  Slowly, Sarevok lifted himself to a sitting position. "So you believe I am innocent of treachery?" he asked.

  "I no longer know what to believe," Abdel replied, forcing himself to his feet. He retrieved his sword, turned his back on Sarevok, and returned to the shelter of his cave. A second later, he heard the grinding of metal on metal as Sarevok stood up and followed him.

  "I am here to offer my aid," Sarevok assured Abdel as he took a seat beside his half brother inside the small cavern. "When you restored my life I vowed to stay by your side, brother. I shall not break that vow. That is why I followed your trail from the battlefield outside Saradush."

  "Is that the reason?" Abdel asked sarcastically, "Or are you here to finish the job Abazigal's dragon could not?"

  Sarevok shook his head. "Abazigal? I am not familiar with that name."

  Abdel sighed, still uncertain if Sarevok was telling him the truth. "He is one of the Five. A half-dragon, if Melissan's reports are accurate. His pet sacked Saradush—right after the ambush that decimated Gromnir's army."

  The armored man tilted his helm to one side. "And you naturally blamed me for the ambush?"

  "Who else?" Abdel asked with a shrug. "You knew the battle plan, you could have sent a message to the army beyond the walls. And you disappeared during the battle. Why not assume you were the traitor?"

  "Your evidence could implicate others as well," Sarevok countered. "Gromnir knew our tactics. In fact, it was the mad general who devised the strategy. And he, too, vanished during the battle."

  "No. Gromnir did not arrange this. I saw him die on the battlefield."

  "Did you?" Sarevok asked. "Truly? Or did you merely think you saw him die?"

  "I was there when Gromir died," Abdel insisted. "I killed ... I mean, I saw how he was killed. Crushed by his own horse."

  "Perhaps you only saw what Gromnir wanted you to see," Sarevok cautioned. "The Calimshite general was a Bhaalspawn, Abdel. Do you truly believe a fall from a horse could so easily end his existence?"

  At first Abdel had no reply. The scenario Sarevok painted was improbable but not impossible. Since learning of his own unbelievable parentage, Abdel had come to accept the improbable almost as a matter of course, but he was not yet ready to accept Sarevok's theory without question.

  "If Gromnir was a traitor working for the Five, then why was he hiding in Saradush with Melissan and the other Bhaalspawn?"

  "Imagine you are a servant of the Five," Sarevok said slowly, "maybe even their leader, the one known only as Bhaal's Anointed. You learn of Saradush—a town where the Bhaalspawn you seek to destroy can seek refuge and sanctuary. Would you not bring your army to the gates of this town?"

  When Abdel nodded, Sarevok continued. "And would you not come up with a clever ruse to have them invite you in? Would you not seek some way to infiltrate their ranks?"

  Again, Abdel nodded.

  "Perhaps Gromnir came to Saradush intent on destroying it, his Calimshite soldiers the vanguard of Yaga Shura's larger force. He convinced the people of Saradush to grant him admittance to their city, then seized power. When the troops of Yaga Shura arrived, Gromnir would then be in control of both sides of the siege."

  "But why go through a siege at all?" Abdel protested. "Why not just slaughter the Bhaalspawn as soon as he came to power?"

  Sarevok shrugged with the familiar grating shriek of metal on metal. "Maybe he did not expect Melissan to be there. She is powerful, Abdel. Perhaps Gromnir was forced to maintain the charade for fear of retribution from Melissan.

  "Or maybe," Sarevok added in the nearest approximation to a whisper his monotone speech could achieve, "Gromnir knew you were coming. Maybe all this was a charade to lure you into Saradush and manipulate you into a battle with Yaga Shura. Unfortunately, you survived, and Gromnir was forced to stage his own death to hide his treachery."

  "No, it's all too far-fetched," Abdel declared after a moment's consideration. "The plot is too convoluted, too intricate."

  "That is how most Bhaalspawn think," Sarevok reminded him. "Treachery is in our blood. We will go to any lengths to achieve our devious ends."

  "Including spinning a fantastic tale of deceptions and deceits to cover your own involvement?"

  His half brother made no reply to Abdel's thinly veiled accusation. After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Sarevok spoke again.

  "Do you wish me to go, brother?"

  Abdel nodded. "I can't trust you Sarevok. I can't trust anyone but myself. If you are innocent of these crimes, I have no wish to spill your blood. Therefore, I will grant you the benefit of the doubt. But understand this, brother ... if we ever meet again I will know you are responsible for this bloodshed. And I will kill you."

  With a series of harsh, grinding noises Sarevok rose to his feet. "I understand."

  The armored man turned and left the cave. Abdel could hear the clink of his half brother's armor growing ever fainter until it was lost beneath the soft whistling of the wind.

  He whispered a brief prayer, though he knew no living god who would hear his pleas. He prayed he had made the right decision by letting Sarevok live, and he prayed that Jaheira still survived, wherever she might be.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Imoen had been traveling for nearly seven days, accompanied by Melissan and the small group of soldiers and refugees from Saradush. As far as Imoen could tell, she was the only Bhaalspawn among them. It was hard to imagine that of the dozens and dozens of men and women who shared Bhaal's tainted blood, only she and Abdel had survived the slaughter unleashed upon the city.

  The young girl shifted in her saddle. Melissan had managed to find horses for them all, making the trip bearable, but even riding could not make the journey pleasant. They set out each morning before the sun rose, and they rode long past the coming of dusk. After a week, their arduous trek was finally nearing its end.

  They had set out for Amkethran the same morning Abdel had left to pursue the dragon that had taken Jaheira. However, while Abdel had gone south, Melissan and her company had ventured west, heading down the well-maintained trade route known as the Ithal Road.

  The countless hours she had spent poring over the maps tucked away in the Candlekeep archives while dreaming of a life beyond the stodgy library walls had given Imoen a strong sense of geography even in these unfamiliar lands. She knew the village of Amkethran lay several hundred miles southwest of Saradush. But there was nothing unusual about the much longer route Melissan was leading them on by sticking to the western-running Ithal Road.

  A more direct path between Saradush and Amkethran would have led them right through the heart of the Forest of Mir, or, as many of the locals called it, Khalamjiri—the place of deadly teeth. Even if it had been possible to somehow survive a journey through the lethal woods the more direct route would have emerged right at the base of the all-but-impassable Marching Mountains. In truth, the route Melissan had chosen was the only route they could have taken.

  Melissan had kept to the Ithal Road for the first four days. Only then, a full day's ride past the merchant city of Ithmong and just beyond the western tip of the Forest of Mir, did they turn to the south. Two more day's ride had brought them to the edge of the Calim desert, where the stress and strain of the long forced flight had been made even more torturous by a full day's ride through the burning heat of the endless sea of sand.

  Now Imoen's legs were stiff and aching, her muscles unused to clinging to the back of a horse for so many days without a break. Her rump was sore and blistered from rubbing against the saddle. Her fair skin was red and raw, burnt by the wind and the sun that was even now setting beyond the horizon. The meager rations of water they were allotted since entering the desert did nothing to stave off thirst.

  Mercifully, the ordeal would end soon. Since early afternoon she had been able to make out a gleaming marble edifice in the distance. That must be the monastery at Amkethran, Imoen thought. Melissan had explained that the monastery was run by a man named Balthazar and his monks. Balthazar, Melissan had promised, would provide the last refuge for Imoen—and Abdel, once he joined up with them.

  As the last light of day disappeared and the soothing cool of night settled in, the group at last reached their destination. Amkethran was, to Imoen's eyes, little more than a shantytown, nothing but a number of tents and baked mud homes built around the monastery. A crude two-story building that might have been a temple stood in one corner of the village.