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 Faerun 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 Faerun.

  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 Faerun, 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 follow 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.

  Chapter Six

  "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 had 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.

  In the end, Abdel knew, it was always the same. Without outside aid, Saradush would fall.

  "You lied to me, Sarevok," Abdel said angrily. "Or you're leading us into a trap."

  In the week they had spent traveling to Saradush, Abdel had not said above a dozen words to his half brother. Wisely, Sarevok had not tried to make conversation with either the big sellsword or his half-elf companion. Occasionally he would speak to Imoen, but the cold stares of Jaheira and Abdel kept the young woman's answers brief, and eventually Sarevok had ceased his efforts and continued on in silence.

  At night Abdel, Jaheira and Imoen alternated shifts watching over the other two as they slept. None of them trusted Sarevok enough to go to sleep in his presence without having a vigilant guard on duty. For his own part, Sarevok would pass the entire night standing motionless in one place, his face invisible behind his dark visor. Abdel often wondered if the big man's armor supported him in that position, allowing him to sleep standing up—or if the physical form Sarevok had been resurrected in didn't need to sleep at all. He didn't eat, at least not that the others ever noticed, and he never removed his armor.

  "I did not lie to you, brother," Sarevok replied. "And I have no desire to betray the one who has given me another chance at life."

  "Then why did you bring us to this doomed town?" Jaheira demanded.

  "I did not know Saradush was under siege. If you are afraid of a trap, you need not enter the city." After a brief pause, the armored warrior added, "But then you will never learn the secrets Melissan holds, Abdel. The secrets of our father. Melissan has the answers, Abdel."

  "Even if you speak the truth, there is no way into the town!" Jaheira said.

  "That is not true, half-elf. My brother could walk through the front gates uninjured, if he chose. He could slaughter the entire army and save the town, if that was his wish."

  "No," Jaheira spat. "More lies! We do not know the limits of Abdel's healing powers, and he will not risk his life against an entire army to test them."

  "Besides, he isn't invulnerable. That lady with the arrows hurt him," Imoen said.

  Abdel didn't say anything at first. He knew both Jaheira and Imoen had valid points, he knew what they said was true. But he also knew, deep down, that Sarevok was right. If he unleashed his full fury on the army gathered on the plains below, no one could stop him from entering the city gates. Any who tried would surely end up dead.

  If the defenders inside the walls tried to keep him from entering, they would end up dead too, and if this Melissan refused to help him he would probably slay her, as well. He was the son of a god, a Child of Bhaal. If he wanted to, he could get inside the town. All he had to do was set the essence of his father loose and immerse himself in an orgy of bloody slaughter. But if he did that, Abdel knew, he would be lost. The part of him that was Abdel Adrian would be gone forever, swallowed by the ravaging beast that was the Lord of Murder reborn.

  "If massacring an entire army is the only way in," the big sellsword said, "then I will have to learn to live without my answers."

  The familiar shriek of Sarevok's armor as he shrugged set Abdel's teeth on edge, as it always did.

  "I did not say that was the only way in," Sarevok answered. "I merely told you the solution that came most readily to my mind." There was a tinge of regret in his otherwise monotonal voice when he continued, "Perhaps such thoughts are why I was lost to the spirit of our unholy father while you have so far been able to resist his call, Abdel."