His powerful hands found holds in the countless tiny cracks and fissures that covered the cliff wall. His boots scrabbled and scratched at the hard surface, seeking and finding footholds in the rough stone. Often he was forced to support his entire weight with a single arm, hauling his massive body up until the sweat-slicked, groping fingers of his free hand were able to fasten onto a tiny outcropping of stone higher up the mountain. Again and again his limbs fought against fatigue as he dangled hundreds of feet above the rocks below, but each time the essence of his immortal father gave him the endurance to press on and up to the next ledge where he could stop and allow his body a few minutes to recuperate.

  The higher he climbed, the more difficult the trial became. The atmosphere grew thin, and Abdel found himself gasping for breath. The cold air of the mountain’s upper reaches chilled his limbs, making them stiff and heavy. A sheen of icy frost coated everything, seeping into the crevices he used to pull himself along and making his grip slip and slide.

  When he finally slung his leg up over the ledge of the plateau at the summit, the sun was at its zenith. The climb had taken him well over three hours, time Abdel was afraid he couldn’t spare. Determined as he was to rescue Jaheira, he had no illusions about what would happen if all the dragons returned at once to find him atop their mountain lair. He had barely survived an encounter with a single of the winged monsters—a dozen would shred him to bits.

  In the center of the plateau was a great, gaping hole—an entrance to the miles of passages, caves, and caverns descending deep into the mountain’s heart. Somewhere in the rock labyrinth, Abdel prayed, he would find Jaheira.

  He drew his heavy broadsword from the sheath on his back and marched toward the cavern’s entrance. Before he reached his destination, a single figure emerged from the pit and stood to face him.

  The thing was shaped like a man, but its skin was patched with multicolored scales. Its head was smooth and hairless, its eyes reptilian in appearance.

  “I did not expect you ssso sssoon,” it hissed, a serpentine tongue flicking from its mouth as it spoke. “Even now my petsss are out hunting for you in the plainsss to the north.”

  “I have come for Jaheira,” Abdel said, brandishing his sword as he bargained for his lover. “Return her to me and I will leave.”

  “Your lover isss no more,” the monster hissed at him. “I sssaw her lassst breath myssself.”

  The lizard thing laughed, and Abdel could no longer deny the awful truth. Jaheira was dead. Numb with grief, he could only shake his head in helpless denial. Images of her grisly end came unbidden to his mind, spurred on by the memory of his last image of Jaheira writhing in the dragon’s grasp.

  In his mind’s eye he could see her beautiful features twisted in relentless agony as she was crushed within the dragon’s ruthless grip, her bones snapping like kindling. He imagined her head thrown back in a soundless scream as one of the beast’s savage talons pierced her armor and chest, impaling her frail body even as she was frozen by the icy winds of the dragon’s flight.

  “No!” Abdel screamed, his mind desperately scrambling to find some small sliver of hope. “No! I will not accept this!” He remembered this pain. He had thought Jaheira lost to him once before, but she had been brought back to life by the clerics of Gond Wonderbringer.

  “Give her to me! She may yet be saved!”

  Abazigal sneered, his reptilian lips curling into a disdainful sneer. “What makesss you think I will lisssten to your pleasss?”

  Abdel knew how ludicrous his request seemed. He understood the lunacy of begging his mortal enemy for the life of his lover, but he didn’t care anymore. All he wanted was Jaheira back.

  “I will give you anything,” Abdel promised, his voice wild. “My essence, my spirit, my soul… anything!”

  The only response was a scornful hiss. “Ssshe isss gone, fool! Her blood-soaked, broken body gasssped itsss lassst as my pet dropped her at my feet, as an offering for my approval.

  “Ssshe sssuffered, Abdel,” Abazigal whispered, his voice dripping venom. “Ssshe died in pain. And then I gave her to my petsss. They ripped her apart and devoured her mangled corpssse pieccce by pieccce!”

  “No!” Abdel’s scream ripped the sky, the very mountain trembled beneath the fury of his outrage. Had he the words, he would have vowed a million excruciating deaths upon Abazigal to avenge his fallen lover. But words rarely came to Abdel. He was a man of actions.

  “Your half-elf isss dead, Abdel Adrian,” Abazigal replied mockingly. “Asss are you.”

  The creature’s taloned hands began to weave the arcane patterns of sorcery in the air, and he began to recite the words of a spell. Abdel leaped toward the monster, determined to hack the reptilian sorcerer down before he could complete his incantation.

  Three bounding strides brought Abdel in range. Spinning to build momentum he slashed his sword at the creature’s neck, intending to avenge Jaheira’s death by beheading his foe with a single blow. His sword deflected mere inches from the beast’s throat, ricocheting harmlessly as it struck some unseen, impregnable sorcerer’s shield.

  Lightning flared from the creature’s clawed fingers and struck the big sellsword square in the chest, blowing Abdel backward through the air and nearly sending him over the plateau’s ledge. Abdel landed less than a yard from the cliff’s edge, then leaped to his feet and dived out of the path of a second blast of lightning that would have sent him plummeting over the precipice.

  He ducked and dodged the onslaught of electrical bolts, slowly working his way ever closer to his enemy. The wizard didn’t seem to care that Abdel was steadily closing the distance between them. Just before Abdel got himself within range to try another swipe of his sword, the creature vanished.

  Abdel spun around, certain his foe would reappear directly behind him, but the lizardlike mage was now standing on the far side of the plateau, already invoking another spell. Abdel heard a terrible roaring from above and just barely managed to dive clear of the column of flame plunging down on him from the sky. Abdel screamed in pain as the terrible heat blistered and seared his skin. As with the dragon’s breath, the injuries inflicted by the fire did not heal.

  Badly wounded, Abdel slowly struggled to his feet, only to be knocked to the ground by another lightning blast.

  “You have no chance, Abdel Adrian,” his enemy hissed. “Your crude warrior’s skills are no match for my sssorcery.”

  As he lay on the ground, singed and no longer even able to stand, Abdel knew Abazigal spoke the truth.

  Imoen shifted from side to side on the thin straw mattress that served as her bed. Melissan had not been exaggerating when she claimed the monks within the monastery lived a sparse, barren existence. Apart from the none-too-comfortable sleeping mat, there were no furnishings in Imoen’s room. The walls were smooth, bare, white stone—just like every other wall she had seen since entering the sanctuary.

  Imoen had been surprised to find the interior of the monastery was nothing more than a collection of single-story stone barracks lining either side of a large, open courtyard. In the center of the courtyard was a single stone tower, just slightly shorter than the thirty foot walls surrounding Balthazar’s simple keep.

  Melissan had introduced her to two of the order’s members, Brother Regund and Brother Lysus. Imoen found herself fascinated by the intricate tattoos covering the shaved heads and faces of the two men. She was dying to ask the significance of the glorious designs, certain they carried some deep religious significance. Remembering how she had embarrassed herself in front of Melissan with her earlier erroneous observations and comments about Balthazar and the monastery, she was willing to let her curiosity go unsatisfied.

  Balthazar, the monks had explained after the brief introduction, was temporarily unavailable. They had assured Melissan that they would see to Imoen’s comfort and safety to the best of their abilities.

  It seemed to Imoen as if Melissan had found Balthazar’s absence particularly troubling, but the tall woman had merely nodded her head in acceptance of the news.

  “Go with these men,” she had reassured Imoen. “They will take you somewhere safe. I have business to attend to, but I will come see to your comfort once I am free.”

  Though she was reluctant to leave Melissan’s side, Imoen had followed the two men without protest into the solitary tower jutting up from the center of the courtyard. They led her through the tower’s only door and up a long staircase to the windowless second floor. The floor consisted of nothing but a long, dark hallway and open doors that led into half a dozen rooms—all empty except for a single torch and the straw mats Imoen now struggled to find a comfortable position on.

  “Here in the meditation rooms you can rest without fear,” Brother Regund had assured her.

  “The members of our order will patrol the entrance to the lower floor to ensure your safety,” Brother Lysus had added. “We will see that no one disturbs you until Balthazar has returned. Our leader will be most eager to speak with you.”

  And on that rather ominous note, they had left her alone.

  Time passed slowly for Imoen when she was by herself. If the austere surroundings were supposed to inspire peace and contemplation, they weren’t working for her. In fact they seemed to have the opposite effect. She was restless and bored, her quick and curious mind anxious to find anything to draw its attention.

  Without the benefit of windows to see the passing of the moon outside, Imoen couldn’t even estimate how long she had been cooped up here. An hour? Four? She wished again that Melissan would come up to visit her. The taller woman had mentioned something about speaking to Imoen once they were safe inside, but she hadn’t come to check on Imoen yet.

  Perhaps she was busy with more important matters. Or maybe, Imoen suddenly thought, the monks below would not allow Melissan inside the tower until Balthazar had returned.

  The idea seemed preposterous at first glance, but the more she considered it the more plausible it seemed. Imoen had assumed that Melissan and she were guests, but the more she thought about the words and actions of the monks who had greeted them upon their arrival the more Imoen began to suspect she might be a prisoner.

  Something about the guards had made Imoen nervous. Their strange tattoos had unnerved her, but it was more than that. Their words were spoken without emotion or feeling. Their faces were lined with intense focus and concentration, but Imoen couldn’t even began to guess what the object of their attentions might be.

  Their eyes didn’t roam across her body like those of other men. They didn’t even sneak quick peeks at her when they thought she wouldn’t notice. When they looked at Imoen, they stared directly into her eyes, as if they were peering into her very soul.

  In many ways, Imoen realized, the monks reminded her of Sarevok. Determined, intense, inscrutable, and cold. Not really alive, but merely going through the motions of life. As if the passions and fires of the world could not touch them.

  Imoen shivered. The monks were religious fanatics, she decided. That was what bothered her. They served some higher purpose, some unknown code of belief she would never understand, and now she was in their power, trapped inside this inescapable tower until the mysterious Balthazar arrived to…

  No. Imoen shook her head and laughed. It was preposterous. Bored with the dull surroundings, her mind was working overtime. Fashioning bizarre conspiracies out of the thinnest of threads. Melissan wouldn’t have brought them here if she felt there was any danger. No, Imoen decided, she was not a prisoner. Still, she had to admit, the monks were odd.

  Her guards’ fanatical obedience to some unknown higher authority that had so troubled Imoen only moments before now reassured her. There was no chance one of them would creep up later while she slept to paw at her with filthy hands. More importantly, she knew she didn’t have to worry about these men betraying her for gold or out of a mad hunger for power. In her situation—hunted, hated, alone except for Melissan, a woman she didn’t even really know—Imoen realized the religious devotion of Regund, Lysus, and their comrades might be the best protection she could hope for.

  She shifted once more on her sleeping mat. Her body ached from the long ride across the desert. She felt fatigue in her muscles and joints. Even her bones were tired. Her mind, exhausted by the convoluted track of suspicions and reassurances it had just traversed, finally grew quiet. Lying still, Imoen felt the silence of the tower seeping into her body and spirit. She welcomed the peace it offered, and within seconds Imoen was snoring softly.

  With the climbing claws strapped to her hands, Sendai scaled the smooth marble walls of Amkethran’s monastery as easily as most women would ascend a gently sloping set of steps. At the top she crouched low and scampered along the edge of wall, oblivious to the thirty-foot drop on either side.

  She moved without a sound, silent as a shadow. The courtyard below was bathed in darkness, but the drow’s eyes were able to study the layout of the buildings and the placement of the guards.

  Several of Balthazar’s monks were standing at full attention near the base of a tall tower in the center of the compound. Had her target been a drow matriarch, Sendai would instantly have dismissed the tower as too obvious. That was how the drow mind worked. The guards would be mere bait to lure her into the structure that would then collapse and kill them all. She knew surface dwellers were simple folk, that they were not devious enough to set such a trap. Or perhaps they merely lacked the will to sacrifice dozens of their own followers’ lives to catch an assassin.

  Whatever the explanation, Sendai could not help but feel her talents were wasted and unappreciated by these pale-skinned amateurs. Back in Ched Nassad, the Underdark city of her birth, the professional assassin had been respected and feared for her talents—not vilified and scorned.

  As she studied the movements and positions of the guards, plotting how she would slip past them and into the tower, Sendai couldn’t quell the anger stirred up by the recollections of her homeland. Anger for all she had lost.

  A daughter in the minor noble house of Kenafin, she had been born with the character traits of most drow females: She was ambitious, ruthless, sadistic. Sendai was also wise enough to see that her chances of political advancement were slim. She lacked the devotion to Lolth required of a priestess. So she had chosen a different path to make her name, though one perfectly acceptable in drow culture.

  It hadn’t taken long before Sendai’s considerable skills in discreetly eliminating her foes and rivals drew the attention of Ched Nassad’s more powerful matriarchs. Just barely past her twentieth year, she had already become the darling of the ruling mothers. Each sought to use her for their own purposes. They tried to entice her loyalty with offers of power, slaves, and wealth. In typical drow fashion, Sendai had managed to play the dangerous game of serving no one house in particular, maximizing her opportunities—and her enemies.

  Sendai, young as she was by drow standards, had already become a master of the political game. She managed to avoid the pitfalls, forming alliances when necessary and breaking them when it proved advantageous. In Ched Nassad the name of the assassin Sendai was often whispered as a rising star, worthy of both fear and respect.

  The priestesses had ruined it all. The Spider Queen was a jealous god, she would brook no rivals in her domination of drow society. Knowing this, Sendai had kept her father’s identity secret. Any of her close family who could have exposed her had already tasted the edge of her poisoned blade, including her mother.

  In the Underdark secrets are many, and none can stay buried for long. Somehow the Temple learned of her tainted Bhaalspawn blood, and the priestesses came to take her to their interrogation chambers to test her loyalty. Sendai had experienced torture in her young life—it was almost inevitable given the nature of drow society. But she was not about to submit herself to the unimaginable sufferings of the Matron Mothers. Not when their interrogations would likely end with the decision that the offspring of Bhaal was too dangerous to live among them.

  So Sendai had fled. She spent a year as a fugitive, moving from Ched Nassad to Menzoberranzan to Ust Natha, seeking some corner of the Underdark where she might find refuge from the priestesses’ pursuit. The web of the Spider Queen wove its reach through every city and noble house of drow society, and finally Sendai had been forced to flee the Underdark, exchanging the glorious world of caverns and tunnels for painfully bright and open skies.

  There Bhaal’s Anointed had found her and offered her the chance to join the Five. The opportunity seemed like a task worthy of Sendai’s considerable skill—slay the Bhaalspawn, assassinate the offspring of a god, but the idea was far more grand than the actual act. Most of Sendai’s targets were not even aware of their immortal heritage. They lived petty, pointless lives. Ending their existence was almost a favor. Even the nobles and powerful merchants in the surface dwellers’ society were easy prey and did little to sate her lust for a challenge.

  Sendai fought a never-ending battle against complacency, fearing her skills would atrophy or her technique would become sloppy. She needed to stay in top form, for once the Five had eliminated the last of the Bhaalspawn, she intended to turn her poisoned blade on her co-conspirators. There was a challenge worthy of her, a true test of her abilities. Every assassination until then was nothing but a pale imitation of the artistry she knew she was capable of.

  The drow, her dark skin and clothes virtually invisible atop the monastery wall, shook her head in disgust. In the past she would have never let her mind wander while in the middle of a job. More proof she was losing her edge. She refocused on the task at hand and leaped from the wall.

  She landed softly on the ground, absorbing the impact by tucking into a ball and rolling through the momentum of the thirty-foot fall. She sprang to her feet to see if any of the guards had heard the faint noise of her unorthodox entrance. For several seconds she stood still, her keen drow ears straining to pick up the sound of an alarm or feet rushing over to investigate.