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.

  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.

  Riding through the dusty streets of the village Imoen couldn’t help but notice the browned and leathered faces of those who toiled in the hard-scrabble environment of the desert. The paucity and insignificance of Amkethran was made even more noticeable by the towering white marble walls of the monastery on the eastern edge of the town. Thirty feet high, the perimeter defenses of Balthazar’s fortified residence dwarfed the other structures.

  Though it threatened to make her legs cramp up, Imoen spurred her horse forward until she rode even with Melissan at the head of the company.

  “This Balthazar sure likes to rub his fortune in the noses of these villagers,” she whispered, appalled at the ostentatious display so blatantly shoved into the face of the abject poverty of Amkethran itself.

  “Hush, child,” Melissan cautioned. “Beyond these walls Balthazar and his monks live a sparse, barren existence. These walls are for protection, not for show.”

  Imoen blushed and turned her eyes to the ground. She admired Melissan. The tall woman was beautiful, strong, and wise. Men and women alike looked up to her. Imoen felt herself drawn to this mysterious woman who had become her protector. She felt herself constantly staring at the imposing figure in black, unable to take her eyes from Melissan’s powerful, athletic form. Imoen loved the way Melissan dressed. Her dark clothing covering her entire body not only made her more mysterious, it also seemed to reject the stereotypical flashes of flesh most women used to attract the attentions of men.

  Imoen had wanted nothing more than to impress Melissan. That was the sole intent of her comments about Amkethran. Instead, she had stupidly embarrassed herself. Thankfully, Melissan had not noticed Imoen’s shame—or at least, she had the decency to pretend not to notice.

  Imoen tried to save face by explaining her earlier comment. “I just meant, well, did they have to build the monastery right on the eastern edge of the town? It casts a shadow over all of Amkethran. It must take hours before the first light of the morning sun even touches the villagers.”

  Melissan tossed her head back and laughed, her raven tresses cascading down her back as she did so. “You have the history of Amkethran somewhat backward, dear girl. The monastery has stood here for many generations. It is the town that is new. And it is no accident that those few who choose to live here have built their homes beneath the shadow of the monastery.

  “You have spent but one full day beneath the blazing sun of the Empires of the Sands,” Melissan continued. “Surely you can appreciate the relief even a few extra hours of shade each day would provide. You should watch what you say in the streets of Amkethran. Balthazar and his monks are held in high esteem by the people of this town.”

  Chastened by Melissan’s words, Imoen could only stammer out a feeble apology. “I… I’m sorry, Melissan. I meant no disrespect.”

  Melissan reached over to place her elegant hand reassuringly on Imoen’s shoulder. The young girl felt a thrill at the noblewoman’s touch. “Your concern for the less fortunate is touching, Imoen. In this case it is misplaced, but you must never apologize for your instincts to help others. In my youth, I, too, shared your passions.”

  Looking up into Melissan’s eyes, Imoen saw a genuine and sincere compassion. Imoen wanted to say something else, but she was afraid of ruining the moment, and the moment was gone.

  The electric touch of Melissan’s hand slipped from her shoulder, and the tall woman spurred her horse forward. “I must go and see that the monks are prepared for our arrival,” she called back over her shoulder. “We can speak again inside the safety of the tower.”

  Imoen watched Melissan gallop off, her eyes drawn to the glorious mane of jet-black hair streaming out behind the woman.

  In the comfort of his dragon’s den, among the company of his faithful pets, Abazigal fantasized about his future as a pure-blood wyrm. The respect commanded by true dragons, the mere glory of their very existence, would be his once Bhaal had been resurrected. Abazigal, once spurned as a half-breed, would be hailed as a hero by all of dragonkind as he led them to their true destiny as rulers of Faerûn.

  He had come far since his humble beginnings. Abazigal remembered nothing of his dragon mother. Did she reject him as the abomination he was, or did she protect him and nurture him? It didn’t matter. Her existence was nothing but an idealized concept, his link to the glory of dragonkind, and a way to deny the history of his youth.

  Abazigal’s earliest memories were of his cruel master, the nameless wizard who had sought to unlock the secrets of dragons through torture and experiments. Abazigal had served as a slave to the sadistic mage, cleaning the laboratory, caring for the dragon’s eggs the wizard had managed to steal, feeding the young hatchlings as they were born, and disposing of their mangled, broken bodies when the wizard’s experiments went awry.

  He was often experimented on by the master, though the mage was careful never to bring about Abazigal’s death. Dragon eggs he had by the dozens, but a half-breed, the link between man and wyrm, was a rare beast indeed.

  That was exactly how the master had treated Abazigal and the dragons he kept imprisoned in his lab, as beasts. The experiments of the wizard destroyed most of his subjects’ minds, the dragons lucky enough to survive his torturous research were left little more than brutes—incapable of speech or spells, stripped of their magnificent intelligence by a sniveling human wizard who dared to use the wyrms for his own twisted purposes.

  Abazigal was no mindless brute, though he pretended to be an imbecile in the master’s presence. His act resulted in many beatings and painful punishments for failing to follow even the simplest of instructions, but they were a small price to pay for maintaining the ruse. Believing him to be stupid and harmless, the wizard allowed Abazigal free run of the laboratory. While the mage studied the secrets of Abazigal and the dragons, Abazigal studied the wizard’s own secrets.

  With his dragon mother’s innate intelligence, Abazigal mastered the intricacies of sorcery, teaching himself over many, many years—all the while slaving beneath the master’s heavy hand. Once he had learned all he could from the wizard, Abazigal turned on his captor.

  The mage’s death was slow and painful. Abazigal extracted retribution for not only his own sufferings but the sufferings of the pure-blood dragons whose torture he had witnessed over the years. Every shattered egg, every dead hatchling, every wyrm that had been transformed into a dumb beast no longer worthy of the title “dragon” by the master was avenged in the wizard’s agonizing end.

  Winning his freedom did not end Abazigal’s responsibilities to the young dragons the wizard had imprisoned. A dozen wyrms still lived, all too mentally damaged to fend for themselves. Abazigal had adopted them as his own. He tried to restore their minds, to elevate them to their rightful status, but the damage done by the master was irreparable.

  Perhaps killing them all, aborting their pathetic existence, would have been the right thing to do, but Abazigal could not bring himself to destroy them, flawed as they were. Instead, they became his pets, his army of quasi-dragons. Fiercely loyal, they served him without question to the best of their limited abilities.

  He was careful to hide the existence of his pets. If the true dragons learned of their existence, they might destroy them as an affront to the species. Yet Abazigal had allowed the greatest of his pets, a young but nearly full grown red, to participate in the siege of Saradush.

  His pet had done well, slaughtering dozens of the cowering Bhaalspawn during the battle. Part of Abazigal had hoped the battle would help the creature understand its own power. Part of him hoped it would not come back, choosing to try and survive on its own in the world, but instead, the young red had returned bearing a gift: a female half-elf.

  Abazigal knew the identity of the half-elf. She was the lover of Gorion’s ward, and Abdel Adrian was coming for vengeance. No doubt he was currently trudging across the plains beneath the newly risen sun, following the path of Abazigal’s pet toward the Alimir Mountains. Even if his enemy rode a horse, Abazigal knew, he would still be several days away.

  The wise course of action was to simply wait, bide his time until Abdel arrived, then unleash his pets on the Bhaalspawn. No single man, not even Bhaalspawn, could withstand the assault of a dozen dragons. Since his meeting with the council of dragons the previous morning, Abazigal was nearly out of patience. He had spent years suffering beneath the master’s tyranny, futilely hoping he would learn some way to rid himself of his half-breed status. He had spent years plotting and conspiring with the foul drow Sendai and the rest of the Five to bring back their father.

  Now his greatest desire was nearly within his grasp. The sooner Abdel Adrian was dead, the sooner Bhaal would return and grant Abazigal true dragon status. Then Saladrex would support his plan to restore dragons to their rightful place.

  With a sharp, hissing whistle Abazigal grabbed the attention of his pets. “Find Abdel,” he said slowly so their damaged minds could process his instructions. “Seek him out on the plains to the north. When you find him, kill him.”

  One by one the dozen young wyrms who served Abazigal leaped from the mouth of his great cavern, eager as ever to do his bidding. Gathering speed, their great bodies rumbled across the plateau where Abazigal had built his lair, charging toward the sheer cliffs that fell away from the mountain peak on all sides. Screaming their hunting cries, their bodies plunged over the precipice, hurtling toward the ground below. At the last second they pulled out of the steep dive and arced high into the early morning sky, their calls still echoing throughout the mountains.

  Abazigal watched them go, as magnificent as any true dragons he had ever witnessed. Soon Abazigal himself would be one of them.

  Abdel had passed the entire night without sleeping. His body, weary and battered from his battle with Sarevok, felt fresh and energized once again as the first rays of dawn peeked through the mountaintops to illuminate the entrance of his cave. Then he heard them—the unmistakable cries of a dragon in flight.

  He burst from the cave, scanning the skies for the beast. To his amazement he saw not one dragon, but nearly a dozen. Their enormous bodies dropped like stones from the top of a nearby peak, then swooped up and away. Abdel, fascinated by the spectacle, could only stand and watch.

  The dragons flew off to the north, oblivious to the human standing a short distance to the south watching their progress. When the final wyrm disappeared on the horizon, Abdel set off toward the peak they had launched themselves from, certain he would find Abazigal there, and hopefully Jaheira as well. If he had any hope of saving his lover, he would have to find her and escape before the army of dragons returned.

  It took less than an hour for Abdel to reach the base of Abazigal’s mountain enclave, but the most difficult part of his journey was still ahead—a thousand feet straight up the sheer rock face. Studying the obstacle before him, Abdel could make out a number of small ledges and jutting rock formations large enough for a man to stand on. These were few and far between. Scaling the mountain would mean free climbing with no chance to stop and rest. Even Abdel’s own godlike endurance had limits, and he was about to test them fully.

  Hoping his healing abilities could save him should he fall, Abdel began the ascent. Any ordinary man foolish enough to even attempt the climb would have surely plunged to his death long before reaching the first ledge, unable to push his body through the tremendous physical strain of literally crawling up the side of an unassailable mountain. Abdel had the strength necessary to drag himself ever higher.