The sound of Abdel’s bitter laugh echoed off the stone walls encircling them. “I know you are one of the Five! You hunted your own Bhaalspawn kin so that you might use their essence to resurrect our father!”

  “I was one of the Five,” Balthazar admitted as Abdel cautiously approached, his twin blades weaving hypnotic patterns in the air, “though I never shared their vision. They wanted to bring Bhaal back, and I want to ensure he stays dead forever. Killing those who shared our tainted blood was common to both their end and mine, so I aided them in the hunting of the Bhaalspawn. But all along I intended to betray them at the end, Abdel.”

  Abdel was barely even listening to the lies spilling from his enemy’s mouth. He wouldn’t let the words distract him from the task at hand. If the monk wanted to jabber away while the sellsword inched ever closer, Abdel would let him speak—until he silenced Balthazar by slitting his throat.

  Although he rarely fought with a weapon in each hand, Abdel knew how to use twin blades to maximize his offensive advantage. He led with a series of high offensive thrusts and slashes from the broadsword, designed to drive the monk back and throw him off balance. He’d follow up by stabbing the dagger in toward his foe’s kidney, forcing him to turn away from the tiny blade—and right into the heavy edge of the broadsword cutting down from the other side.

  Something went wrong, Balthazar did not retreat beneath the first savage assault. He parried the sword with his bare left hand, turning his wrist so that the palm met the flat of the blade and deflected its arc harmlessly away. Abdel’s second thrust was similarly met and turned aside. In desperation he tried to bring the dagger up, but a stiff kick from Balthazar’s leg caught him in the elbow and knocked the knife from his numb grasp.

  Balthazar ducked down and away from what Abdel had expected to be the finishing blow, letting the heavy broadsword slice harmlessly through the air less than an inch above his head. Before Abdel could reverse the momentum of his attack he was doubled over by a knee slamming into his groin. An instant later he was straightened up as the knee slammed into his chin.

  Blinded by stars of pain, Abdel never saw the rapid flurry of punches to his midsection, though he did feel several of his ribs crack in quick succession. He felt a pair of firm hands wrap themselves around his wrist and heave on his arm, and Abdel was hurled through the air to land hard on his back.

  “As long as even a single drop of Bhaal-tainted blood courses through living veins, there is a chance someone will find a way to bring Bhaal back to life,” Balthazar calmly explained, not even breathing heavily after their confrontation. “Like all the other Bhaalspawn, you have the taint of Bhaal within you, and you must be killed for the good of the world.”

  The ceiling slowly came into focus as Abdel’s vision cleared. His left hand was paralyzed. He couldn’t even clench his fingers into a fist. Every breath brought agonizing pain as his cracked rib cage was forced to expand and contract. He coughed and choked as a trickle of blood crawled up his throat. He could feel his body struggling to restore itself, fighting to overcome the powerful sorcery contained in every punch and kick Balthazar delivered. His body was healing—slowly.

  “What about you?” Abdel croaked, stalling for time. “You are also a Bhaalspawn. Must you die for your tainted blood?”

  “I have learned to control the evil within me, Abdel,” Balthazar replied. “These markings on my body contain my vile essence with powerful magics. I have devoted my entire life to mastering the mental discipline that enables me to keep Bhaal’s fury caged within my body and soul. But as long as I live,” the monk continued, “there will be those who would seek to release what I have worked so hard to imprison. The chances of them succeeding are infinitesimal, but even that risk is too great. Once you are dead, Abdel, I also must die. We are the last two. With your death and my ritual suicide we will forever free the world from the threat of Bhaal’s return.”

  The bones in Abdel’s chest were mending. He could feel sensation and strength returning to the fingers of his left hand. Throughout the savage beating he had managed to hang on to his broadsword, but he still needed a few more seconds.

  “You’re mad, Balthazar.”

  “That is an inevitable consequence of who and what we both are,” the monk said. “Bhaal’s essence brings madness and death. No matter how we try to avoid it, no matter our intentions, we cannot help but manifest the darkest of our father’s traits. And all those around us suffer.”

  His body was whole once more, but Abdel did not leap up to attack right away. Something in Balthazar’s words rang true. Had not Abdel always been a harbinger of death and suffering? How many men and women had he slain in his career as a blade for hire? Hundreds? Thousands?

  There were those who sought to turn him away from a life of bloodshed. Those who loved him despite his violent nature. Gorion, Jaheira, and what had become of them? Dead, like Imoen, and like Sarevok, like everyone he came in contact with.

  “Is there no way to rid ourselves of Bhaal’s taint?” Abdel asked, praying Balthazar would give him an answer that offered even the faintest glimmer of hope before he ended the monk’s existence.

  “The curse of our father cannot be avoided.” Balthazar’s voice was somber, even regretful. “Many of our kin simply submitted to Bhaal’s foulness and let the essence consume them. Sarevok was once one of those. The other members of the Five were also of that kind. Others tried to resist the Lord of Murder’s darkness, as you and I have done. But we are doomed to failure. Despite our efforts, death follows in our wake. Our footsteps are left in a trail of blood, Abdel. Even I, with all my training, have not been able to resist the killing urges of Bhaal.”

  The implications of Balthazar’s words were too much for Abdel to bear. If the monk was right, Jaheira’s death was his fault. His unholy heritage had doomed her from the start. Abdel wouldn’t accept that. He couldn’t. How could he avenge her death if he was the one to blame?

  He clung to his vengeance like a drowning man to a rope tossed from the shore. It was all he had left, the only thing that could fill the emptiness inside. The Five had killed Jaheira, not he, and the Five would pay.

  Abdel leaped to his feet, struggling to keep the inferno inside from overwhelming him. He didn’t want to release the Ravager. Not unless he had to. He wanted the pleasure of killing Balthazar himself.

  This time Abdel came in slowly, giving his opponent a wide berth as he circled. In their first confrontations Abdel had been the aggressor. Each time he had lunged in Balthazar had countered by using the big sellsword’s aggressiveness and momentum against him.

  Abdel was about to turn the tables on his enemy, taking away his advantage. This time, Abdel would wait for the monk to make the first move. For several long seconds Abdel held his ground, staying well out of range. Waiting, hoping to lure his opponent in.

  Balthazar took the offensive. The monk came straight at him, moving fast. He came in low, trying to sweep Abdel’s legs out from under him. Abdel leaped back and brought his sword chopping down with both hands to cleave Balthazar’s skull. The monk was already gone, twisting and spinning clear of the blade.

  Abdel tried to retreat and reset himself. Balthazar had moved in too close for him to use his weapon effectively. The monk pressed forward, refusing to give Abdel the space he needed. A fist to the jaw, an elbow to the throat, a spinning roundhouse kick to the temple and Abdel collapsed groggily to one knee. A knee to the face, and Abdel’s nose exploded in a bloody geyser.

  He thrust out blindly with his broadsword, hoping to get lucky. Balthazar seized his wrist, braced Abdel’s arm and snapped it backward at the elbow, shattering the joint. Abdel screamed in pain and tried to roll clear. He came to his feet just in time to feel Balthazar’s foot driving through the side of his knee, dislocating it and ripping the ligaments and tendons from the bone now protruding just beneath Abdel’s thigh.

  Balthazar stepped back, leaving his crippled opponent writhing on the floor. “Even now I relish the pain I am inflicting,” he said, almost by way of apology. “We cannot deny what we are Abdel, no matter how much we try. I suppose that is why Bhaal’s Anointed recruited you to eliminate the Five. No matter which side eventually triumphed, Bhaal’s evil would still reign supreme in the victor’s soul. When this is all over, Bhaal’s Anointed can use that evil to resurrect the Lord of Murder.”

  Abdel shook his head, trying to ignore the all-consuming agony of his two mangled limbs while he struggled to follow the words of Balthazar. “Bhaal’s Anointed?” he asked, gritting his teeth against the pain.

  The monk gave him a sympathetic smile. “You have no idea, do you? You are a pawn, Abdel. A puppet on a string. Melissan has been manipulating you this whole time.”

  Melissan breathed deep of the dank, musty air as she slowly walked toward the abandoned temple. It smelled of empty decay and rotting death—a smell she had become all too familiar with over the last thirty years. Beneath the stale, fetid stench she caught a hint of something else: smoke and fire. The scent of burning hatred, the perfume of violent, living, palpable fury. She smiled.

  After giving Abdel her horse, she had been forced to journey here on foot. The trip had taken many days, but that was a minor inconvenience when compared to the decades she had been patiently waiting, and now her patience was about to be rewarded. The hot glow of the flames bathed her body as she entered the door and gazed up at the grinning skull that was the symbol of her god. She felt the heat from the flames lick her skin, caressing her tingling flesh as Bhaal himself had done while he had walked the land before the Time of Troubles.

  The inferno in the pit flared up as she approached, as if the collected essence of the dead god burning within recognized her: Melissan, High Priestess of the Lord of Murder, Bhaal’s Anointed. Long ago, Melissan had enacted the sacrifices and gruesome rituals that fed her god’s hungers. She had led Bhaal’s followers in bloody devotion, slaying enemies and victims alike and tossing their bodies and souls onto the evil, eternal fire at the center of the temple.

  For her faith, Bhaal had rewarded her with the secrets of ascension so that she might bring the Lord of Murder back to life after his inevitable death. The time for the ritual had come, the essence of Bhaal’s offspring had been collected through the Five’s war of bloody sacrifice. All was ripe for the dead god’s return.

  But Melissan now had other plans. The tall woman slowly removed the fine chain mesh she wore over her clothes and let it drop to the floor. She removed her silver gloves and boots and peeled off her long black sleeves and her tight leggings. She stripped away the tight black cloth undergarments that clung to the curves of her shapely form, revealing the horribly disfigured skin beneath. Thirty years ago, Bhaal’s anointing baptism of fire had burned his mark onto every inch of her body, except her face, leaving her flesh a mass of ugly, twisted scar tissue that would never heal.

  She had undergone the transformation willingly, knowing the rewards would be well worth the suffering when the time for retribution came, and that time was nearly at hand.

  Melissan, naked and exposed, stepped into the roaring blaze at the center of Bhaal’s temple. The torment was bearable. Temperatures beyond the scope of mortal fathoming incinerated her spirit, though her mutilated, repulsive body was unharmed. The shrieks of tortured souls, the Bhaalspawn trapped within the conflagration, flooded her ears, splitting her eardrums and piercing her brain.

  She welcomed the pain. She embraced it, and the hellish fire embraced her in return. Orange fingers crept up her skin, crawling inside her mouth and nostrils like a living entity seeking to devour her from the inside out. The flames engulfed her, slowly and painfully purging her mortal existence and opening the way for Melissan’s own ascension to immortality.

  “This must stop!”

  Instinctively, Melissan had closed her eyes as she had entered the sacred fire. At the sound of a seeming multitude of voices speaking in unison, they popped open.

  Through the hazy orange veil of dancing flames she saw an enormous figure towering over her, its head nearly scraping against the roof of Bhaal’s temple. It spread its massive black, celestial robe, dwarfing the naked woman. Melissan recognized this being—a solar, servant and messenger of Ao, the strange being that ruled over even the gods themselves.

  Despite the all-consuming heat, Melissan trembled.

  “This is not permitted!” the being warned. “You cannot do this.” But the creature made no move to intercede. It stood motionless while the ascension ritual progressed, taking no action to disrupt the sacrament.

  Melissan’s fear slowly vanished as the truth dawned on her. This was no divine guardian of fate and destiny, no all-powerful entity sent to smite her down. This was a mere projection, a harmless spirit from another plane.

  “You have no place here!” she screamed above the roaring conflagration. “And you have no power here!”

  “A mortal may not ascend in Bhaal’s place,” the creature stated ominously. “Only one of Bhaal’s lineage must be permitted to fulfill this destiny.”

  “What of Cyric?” Melissan challenged. “Was he not a mortal who ascended to the pantheon?”

  “Cyric was a mistake,” the entity admitted, “an exception that will not be permitted a second time.”

  “Then unleash the wrath of your master upon me,” Melissan dared, made bold by her knowledge of the history of Faerûn. Only once in recorded memory had Ao ever intervened in the events of Abeir-toril, during the Time of Troubles. But that era was over, and Ao had long since retreated once more into the mists of philosophical legend.

  When nothing happened Melissan cackled with mad relief. She had called the solar’s bluff and she had won.

  “Your master is as disinterested as ever. Soon Balthazar will kill Abdel, or perhaps the other way around. It makes no matter. With either death I will gain access to enough of Bhaal’s immortal essence to begin my transformation.”

  Powerless to intervene, unable to even dispute Melissan’s bold words, the solar simply vanished.

  The triumphant laugh of Melissan reverberated off the walls of the abandoned temple. The sacred fire intensified, and Melissan felt her flesh begin to melt. Her laughter turned to screams as her body turned to ash.

  Melissan found herself standing in Bhaal’s Abyssal realm. Her physical body was gone, devoured by the flames raging in the center of Bhaal’s temple back on the material plane. Here in this nether realm she had form once again. She was beautiful once more, the scars and disfigurements of her initiation as Bhaal’s Anointed had been cleansed from her body. She ran her fingers in wonder over her now-smooth, unblemished skin, marveling at her own perfection.

  The heavy rumble of thunder drew her attention skyward. Above her dark clouds roiled and churned, riding the chill wind. Stretching as far as she could see in every direction was dark, rich earth. The gathering essence of Bhaal had brought malevolent life back to the sterile void. The Abyssal plane was now ripe with potential, simply waiting for a powerful hand to shape its growth.

  Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, Melissan raised her arms and began a soft chant. In response the ground began to tremble, and the soil began to bubble and burst as tendrils of diseased vegetation struggled into existence, crawling across the dirt to fawn at the feet of Bhaal’s Anointed. Mountains of stone erupted like jagged teeth on the horizon, encircling the realm with a forbidding, impassable border.

  Melissan opened her eyes to witness the rapid terra-forming of what she already considered her domain. This world obeyed her every whim and desire, yet something was lacking. Melissan felt the power of Bhaal’s immortal essence pulsing through the ground at her feet. It hung like a static charge in the air. She was able to bend that essence to her will, but she herself was not yet part of that essence. She was still a mortal in a god’s realm.

  It was only then that she noticed the single door, standing without walls or frame in the middle of the world. Cautious and curious, the mortal who would be a god approached the odd portal.

  “Melissan has been using you, Abdel,” Balthazar patiently explained to his helpless opponent. “Perhaps she suspected the Five now saw her as no longer necessary and were plotting against her. Perhaps she learned of my desire to betray her cause. Or perhaps she simply realized the Five were becoming too powerful for her to control.

  “Whatever the reason, she played us off against each other. When you came to Saradush she manipulated you into killing Yaga Shura, and she tricked Gromnir into opening the gates of the besieged town. In one fell swoop she slaughtered nearly all the remaining Bhaalspawn and managed to turn you against the Five.”

  Balthazar paused to gauge Abdel’s reaction. The crippled warrior shook his head in denial. “No,” he said through gritted teeth, “I don’t believe you.”

  “What you believe does not matter. Once we are both dead there will be none of Bhaal’s offspring left for Melissan to manipulate, no one to listen to her promises of glory, and no way for Melissan to bring the Lord of Murder back to life.”

  The pain from his demolished joints made cogent thought difficult for Abdel. Balthazar had to be lying, but why? What could the monk possibly gain by spinning such a web of deceit? The big sellsword shook his head, trying to clear away the indecision. Unraveling Melissan’s role in the events of his recent life would have to wait.

  Abdel pushed his confusion down, burying it beneath simpler, purer thoughts.

  The Five had killed Jaheira. Balthazar was one of the Five. Balthazar must die.

  Abdel knew he was overmatched. The monk was too skilled for the warrior to defeat in combat. He had wanted to avenge Jaheira himself, but looking at his horribly mangled sword arm and the bone jutting from his lower leg Abdel now knew that was not to be. Yet vengeance was still possible.

  The fires of Bhaal flared up within him, and Abdel abandoned himself to his father’s evil. His body exploded, sending bits of flesh spewing around the room as the Ravager broke free.