It was Imoen who finally broke the uncomfortable silence that was hanging over the clearing. “So now what?”

  “Now we go to meet Melissan,” Sarevok replied. “In Saradush.”

  The flames from the pit in the center of the temple burned low, casting an eerie red radiance around the room. In the faint light of the ebbing fire it was almost impossible to see the symbol carved into each of the six walls that made up the central chamber of the small building—a grinning gray skull with glowing eyes against a background of tears. The symbol of Bhaal.

  Two shrouded figures stood waiting in the room, neither speaking. Although their robes hid their identities from view, the heavy cloaks did not cover them entirely. Fleeting glimpses of their true forms occasionally came into view with each subtle movement. The larger of the two shifted impatiently, revealing a glimpse of rough, scaly skin just barely visible beneath the shadows of his hood. There was the rasping sound of a slithering snake as he took a shuffling step, and his long, forked tongue flicked out once to taste the air to seek the presence of the others who had not yet arrived.

  The second figure, slender and smaller than her companion, held up her hand to still his nervous fidgeting, her arm moving in a languid, graceful manner. The fingers were long and slender, delicate as those of any elf on the face of Faerûn, but the complexion of her elf hand was the color of burnt ash. Only skin that had never seen the light of the surface world could look as pale and as dark, the skin of a creature from the Underdark, the skin of a drow.

  The larger figure turned his cowled head quickly to the only door. A single reptilian eye reflected the dying embers of the fire as he did so.

  A third cloaked figure strode into view, his hood pulled far down to cover his face. He was not as large as the first, but not as slender as the second. Like the drow, his powerful hands were visible beyond the edges of his long sleeves—though they were covered so completely with intricate tattoos and detailed markings it was impossible to even guess what the original color of this man’s skin had once been.

  “I summoned you because events are moving quickly,” the new arrival announced once he had taken his place by the others.

  The large one hissed, then pointed an accusatory clawed finger at the late comer. “You are not the leader of the Five! Why did Bhaal’s Anointed not summon us?”

  “And where are the others?” the female added, her voice a smoky whisper in the flickering twilight.

  “One is leading the siege of Saradush. Our fifth is dead, slain by Gorion’s ward.”

  “Illasera?” There was a hint of regret in the reptilian voice.

  The tattooed man nodded. “But revenge is soon at hand. Even now Abdel Adrian’s fate is sealed. Our trap has been set.”

  Such veiled speech came naturally to all of the Five. Bhaal’s Anointed had trained them well; all their discussions were shrouded in cryptic phrasing and obscure syntax. For a cult born in the secrecy and shadows surrounding Bhaal’s death, vague references were more than mere idiosyncratic habit—they were a tool of survival. In the beginning the Five had been unknown, ignored by the outside world. With the spreading slaughter of the Bhaalspawn, the most powerful eyes in the kingdoms of the South were being focused on their plans.

  The Five were not yet ready to accept such scrutiny. Their mission was still newborn, a frail infant easily slain. The prying eyes and ears of spies were a constant threat to the continued existence of both the Five and the achievement of their ultimate goal. They were ever conscious of the risk of scrying mages and clairvoyant wizards, even when gathered in their inner sanctum. There was no place that was truly safe, no place that could not be infiltrated by a cunning operative or pierced by the powerful divinations of a meddlesome spellcaster. Even here, in this long-abandoned temple of the Lord of Murder, a single false word, a name carelessly revealed or a plan foolishly exposed could give the enemies of the Five enough information to destroy them.

  Illasera was dead, her name now meant nothing to the cause. But the identities of the Five who still lived—and of Bhaal’s Anointed, their leader—would not be spoken.

  “One of our own has fallen,” the tattooed man announced. “We cannot wait for the others. We must perform the ritual before Illasera’s essence is lost.”

  In perfect unison the three lifted their arms to the crumbling roof of Bhaal’s abandoned temple. Eyes locked on the floor, and their voices rose up in an ancient chant muffled by the hoods still drawn over their faces and the heavy, dank air of Bhaal’s shrine. Words of power tumbled from their lips, and the sputtering flames of the pit in the center of the room flared, arcing to the ceiling in response to the spell.

  Heat erupted from the sudden inferno as leaping tongues of fire touched the corners of the room, bathing the gloomy temple in a blazing orange light. Insects and vermin foolish enough to have crept into the deserted ruin were incinerated, consumed by the burning intensity of a dead god’s magic unleashed by the Five.

  Yet amidst the conflagration the three figures stood unharmed, protected by the sacred words of their dark litany. Oblivious to the heat and flame, they continued the ancient ritual that had been passed down to them by the Anointed One—and passed down to the Anointed One by Bhaal himself.

  The stench of death rolled out from the pit at the center of the room. Beneath the shooting flames the embers began to broil and churn. A banshee’s wail split the night, the tortured shriek of spirits drawn to the accursed shrine of Bhaal by the irresistible necromancy of the Five. Like wisps of smoke, the souls of the newly dead rose up from the pit.

  At first they were but a few, wafting to the ceiling singly or in pairs, but as the incantation deepened, their numbers became legion. Ghosts who had not yet passed to the realms beyond the material world, apparitions of those who were barred from their promised afterlife, phantoms of people so recently deceased they were not even aware of their own demise. The fire in the pit—the fire of Bhaal, the fire of the Abyss—consumed them all, obliterating their existence, incinerating them, feeding itself on their essence until only the echo of their agonized screams remained.

  As suddenly as the ritual had begun, it was over. The scorching heat and blazing light vanished, replaced once more by the damp cold and oppressive shadows of the abandoned Temple. The rising flames sputtered and winked out, leaving only the embers burning as feebly as the last vestiges of a dead god’s presence on the world.

  “Illasera was not there.” Despite her efforts, the drow could not keep her voice from betraying her surprise and confusion.

  “The Huntress had slain many of Bhaal’s children,” the reptilian one ventured. “Without the others, without the Anointed One, we may lack the strength to summon the essence of one as powerful as Illasera.”

  “No, the ritual had power, the failure is not ours. Illasera’s essence is… gone.” The tattooed man spoke slowly, as if he was still pondering the implications of the statement he was making. “Someone else has swallowed her soul.”

  “Gorion’sss ward hasss grown too ssstrong!” The voice of the scaled man was barely intelligible. His tongue flickered in and out with suppressed rage, and his words were nearly lost in an angry hiss.

  “We should have dealt with him long ago,” the drow replied, her own voice husky with anger and fear.

  “That fool’s fate is sealed,” the tattooed man assured them, though his own voice was shaky. “The Anointed One is leading him into certain death. We will seize the taint of Bhaal from the dying soul of Gorion’s ward and reclaim the essence of Illasera for our immortal master.”

  The failed ritual had shaken the tattooed man. Like the Five, he was angry, confused, and afraid. He spoke with an explicit recklessness he would have shunned under normal circumstances. “Bhaal’s Anointed has assured me that Abdel Adrian will meet his end at Saradush!”

  Bhaal’s Anointed, favored servant of the Lord of Murder, awoke from the nightmare bathed in sweat, biting back screams of torment at the last possible second.

  The dream was always the same. Fire. Not the sweet sacrificial flames that devoured victims during the glory of Bhaal’s reign, though the perfume scent of boiling blood and the aroma of roasting flesh were ever present in the dream.

  No, the conflagration within the nightmare was a blaze of unbearable agony, of eternal pain that even now did not abate. The flames of the anointing, the inescapable memory of the agonizing baptism of mutilating, disfiguring fire. With each recurrence of the vivid nightmare, Bhaal’s Anointed had to relive once more the torment of the ritual that had changed the favored worshiper of the Lord of Murder from mere follower to Bhaal’s Anointed, to serve as guardian of the terrible ceremonies that could lead to a dead god’s rebirth.

  The Anointed One drew a shuddering breath but otherwise stayed motionless as the terrible dream slowly faded back into the mists of repressed trauma. Those who slept or stood guard nearby, the fools who had no idea of the true identity of the dark figure within their midst, had not noticed their companion’s reaction.

  Bhaal was dead, his followers lost and scattered, or swallowed up into the ranks of Cyric’s rapidly expanding flock. Though the Lord of Murder was dead, Bhaal’s Anointed knew he was also very much still alive in the world. Soon the ritual of ascension would begin, and the Lord of Murder would be born anew. And all Faerûn would pay for the suffering Bhaal’s Anointed had been forced to endure.

  The early years after Bhaal’s demise had been the most difficult. Hunted by the fanatical followers of mad Cyric, the mortal who had supplanted the dead god’s position in the pantheon, those still faithful to Bhaal had been forced to flee. Their own servants and followers turned on them, throwing their allegiance behind Cyric in a pathetic attempt to save their own lives and salvage their positions within the new order. Bereft of allies, Bhaal’s Anointed and the rest of the faithful were forced to abandon their castles and slaves and live like fugitives as the might and power of Bhaal’s worshipers was obliterated from the face of Faerûn.

  Many went into hiding, reinventing their identities as a shield against their god’s numerous enemies. Clerics who once counted on the protection and might of the priestly magic granted by their dark god were forced to turn to other methods for their survival. Even though Bhaal’s worshipers could no longer call down the wrath of their god upon their enemies, the worshipers were not without power.

  The true believers had learned much at Bhaal’s feet. They knew how to survive. They studied the arts of sorcery, replacing divine spells with arcane magics. They sought out the leaders and rulers of the Southlands under false pretenses, sowing the seeds of future alliances. Always working from within the shadows, the faithful cultivated their own political power by learning the darkest secrets of the influential few who shaped the events of Faerûn, then using those secrets without conscience to further their own goals.

  None were so skilled in these dark lessons as Bhaal’s Anointed. Deception. Lies. Manipulation. Ruthless cunning. In many ways these abilities surpassed that which had been lost: the fierce power of a dark god’s unholy magic.

  Inevitably, the fortunes of Bhaal’s Anointed had risen once more—though few, if any, knew the true identity of the Anointed One. During this time the fortunes of the Bhaalspawn also rose. Driven by the divine essence within, the Bhaalspawn began to rise to prominence up and down the Sword Coast. They attained positions of power and influence in Amn and Tethyr. They attracted followers throughout Calimshan. The first step of Bhaal’s return had begun.

  The Anointed One shivered as the terror sweat of the nightmare was cooled by an invisible draft. The dreams of the anointing were more frequent now, just one more sign that the time of ascension was approaching. Soon Bhaal’s Anointed would receive the ultimate reward for years of faithful service.

  It had fallen to Bhaal’s Anointed to identify the most powerful of the immortal offspring and approach them one by one in an effort to recruit them to the cause. Promises of the immortal gratitude that would fellow in the wake of Bhaal’s resurrection inevitably brought visions of incomprehensible wealth and power, and those Bhaalspawn the Anointed One approached were always quick to accept the offer. Thus were born the Five, a secret alliance of the Lord of Murder’s progeny, organized and led by Bhaal’s Anointed.

  The Five were taught to operate as their leader had done for so many years. They learned to work patiently from the deepest shadows. Secrecy was their weapon, anonymity their shield. Bhaal may have been dead but his many, many enemies still lived.

  Over time the Five solidified their positions and power, spreading their invisible web of influence throughout the country, always careful to keep their very existence a secret. Throughout it all the guiding hand of Bhaal’s Anointed directed their sinister actions.

  They were instructed in the ancient rituals of the Lord of Murder. The mysteries of how to capture the fleeing essence of the dying Bhaalspawn were revealed to them. They were taught how to nurse the embers of the unholy fire in the temple so that it might one day be fuelled by the spirits of their dying kin. And the genocide of the Bhaalspawn had begun.

  But the wholesale slaughter of the other Bhaalspawn had brought consequences even Bhaal’s Anointed had not foreseen. The Five were becoming more independent, less willing to follow the orders of their evil mentor, growing ever stronger as they feasted on the essence of their fallen kin.

  Some of them acted rashly and openly now, exposing themselves before the time was right. Illasera had been the most headstrong of the Five. Bhaal’s Anointed had sent her to slay Abdel Adrian, knowing full well it would be the Huntress who perished in the encounter. A lesson for the rest of the Five, a warning to curb their growing ambition and recklessness. A lesson that had gone unheeded.

  The gray light of approaching dawn was just visible on the horizon. The new day was almost here. The day, Bhaal’s Anointed knew, when Abdel Adrian would be brought to Saradush.

  “That’s Saradush?” It was Imoen who voiced the questions they all were thinking. “How are we supposed to get inside there?”

  Sarevok shrugged. “I only promised to bring you here to meet Melissan. She is inside. If Abdel wants answers to his questions, he must speak with her.”

  For nearly a week Abdel and his companions had been following Sarevok. Emerging from the shelter of the Tethir Forest they had covered a grueling distance on foot, driven by the enemies behind them and the former enemy who now guided them. Sarevok led them ever east and south, crossing the Sulduskoon River. He led them within a day’s march of the legendary Gorge of the Fallen Idol. Finally he bad brought them to the northwestern edge of the Omlarandin Mountains, though the rounded, grass covered mounds were little more than oversized foothills.

  Saradush itself was located just beyond the western edge of the small range, and after a day’s journey south through the rolling hills Abdel and his companions finally got their first glimpse of their destination. They didn’t like what they saw.

  Saradush was under siege.

  The scene was a familiar one to Abdel. The city itself was nearly a mile away, it looked like a small town surrounded by high stone walls that appeared more white than gray. From his vantage point atop the hills overlooking the fields and plains leading to the city gates, he counted nearly a hundred large tents. The sun was just nearing its apex so the glow of campfires was difficult to make out, but Abdel could see thousands of thin smoke trails crawling up through the still air, joining together in a heavy ashen cloud above the plains. Countless tiny figures milled around—soldiers looking to breach the walls. There was no sense of urgency in their actions, but rather a grim, relentless determination. Many of the soldiers clustered together around larger objects.

  At this distance Abdel couldn’t make the details of the objects out, but he knew what they were. Huge wooden towers, with platforms fifty feet high so that the invaders could see over the walls and analyze their opponent’s defenses. Trebuchets and catapults capable of hurling flaming barrels of pitch over the walls stood ready for use. Heavy battering rams with steel coverings extending out and up from the sides to provide some limited protection against the burning oil and flaming arrows were also in a ready position.

  Many of the men were lined up row upon row, and even though he couldn’t see the flight of their arrows Abdel knew these were the archers, releasing volley after volley of arrows to keep the soldiers inside the walls occupied. With the unending hail of feathered shafts raining down on the defenders from above, the attackers outside were free to position their siege engines and war machines without fear of reprisal. Abdel had been on both sides of sieges many times during his years as a sword for hire. He knew most sieges were bloody, costly—yet inevitably successful—exercises.

  Inside the defenders would be whittled down by the unending barrage of missile fire and weakened by starvation and the spread of disease amid the accumulating filth and refuse within. The invaders would keep up the attack, grinding the will of their enemy down and occasionally sending a suicidal rush of ladders and grappling hooks against the walls in the vain hope that their own soldiers would somehow be able to scale the walls and unseat the defenders from the battlements. Of course, the hooks and ladders would be easily dispatched by those inside, and most of the would-be invaders would come crashing to their deaths. The few lucky enough to reach the top would be butchered by the overwhelming number of enemy soldiers gathered against them, their corpses tossed back over the walls in wordless defiance to the attackers.

  Eventually, Abdel knew, the town would be forced to surrender because of famine or pestilence. Or a boulder from one of the trebuchets would collapse a large section of the wall and the enemy would pour in through the breach. Or a battering ram would smash the front gates, tearing the wood from its hinges and leaving a gaping hole too large to be defended for long. In rare circumstances the reckless efforts to scale the wall would actually result in victory, if enough soldiers miraculously reached the top of the battlements and were able to hold their position long enough for reinforcements from their own army outside to scramble up and join them.