Disclaimer: Baldur's Gate and all material taken directly from the game are strictly the property of BioWare Corp. and Wizards of the Coast. Some content is borrowed from the Pocket Plane Group, most notably those who worked on the BG1 NPC project. All original material is copyrighted by the author. All rights reserved.
BALDUR'S GATE
"He who fights monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster…
when you gaze long into the abyss the abyss also gazes into you …"
- Friedrich Nietzsche
Prologue
Thunder roared overhead.
A man pushed open the door. Then he pitched forward to his knees.
His legs failed him. The weight of his mail – the stout bands about his legs and arms and chest, the horned helm upon his head, and even the golden cross upon his breast. It all forced him further toward the stone. It was a burden he could no longer bear.
But he caught himself with his hands. Somehow, he still had the strength to do that.
His arms, his armor – it had all availed him so very much in the struggle below. The shield at his wrist was bent and useless, and he had lost his sword. But he had survived.
He just wanted to tear it all away.
Dead! They're ALL dead!
He forced the useless thought aside. There was nothing for it now. But to run.
Run where, you fool!
He was becoming hysterical, he knew, teetering on the brink of sanity. Panic flooded his skull. Terror flooded the cracks of his mind.
But what was he supposed to do? A quick glance about the rooftop of that building quelled any hope of escape.
Who in the bloody Hells puts a fence on a bloody roof!
He bit back an oath.
Blood, so much blood …
No, no, NO!
Run, he had to run!
Where?
But then there were heavy, thumping steps behind him, and any choice he had was gone. Something massive flew up the steps from below. The thunder died, only to be replaced by that terrible cadence. His voice died in his throat.
Too late.
The wood of the door was bound by iron. It didn't matter. It splintered apart into so much kindling behind him, just as he turned his head. The demon crashed right through.
The man froze. And died again right there on the ground.
Forgotten. Alone.
Useless.
The light from the stairway behind flashed about it, hunching from the blow. But it slowly uncoiled. Golden eyes fixed heavily down upon him.
Then … it laughed.
It was a tall man, broad-shouldered and radiating cruel power as he stood before his fallen prey. That dark form all but obscured the stairwell behind. From helm to boot he was sheathed in black plates, shadows tenfold more sinister than those wavering in the light, with spines sprouting from the backs of gauntlets, greaves, and shoulders. A steel helm encircled his head, carved into the semblance of some monstrous skull – a gaping maw filled with teeth and two sets of curved horns sprouting from either side. When that terrible face found the fallen man's, he nearly screamed anew.
The dark-mailed demon had no weapon. But the man lying beneath him had seen the murder he had done even without one. The fallen man forced himself onto his back and scrambled backward as fast as his battered body would allow, not daring to take his eyes off the other.
"N-no," he pleaded as he slid along stone, his voice failing. "You can't!"
The demon's rumbling laughter continued unabated. Low and menacing.
"I will be the last," he broughta black gauntlet to his chest, clipping the last word harshly. And then he stabbed one metal-dressed finger at the fallen man. He could almost feel the steel break flesh. "And you will go first …"
The laughter grew quieter, more amused, as the demon stepped forward.
No! The man struggled to force himself away, fear wringing his heart with a fist of ice. No!
NO!
Stone stayed him as his back came abruptly against the edge of the low wall that surrounded the whole of the roof, and he flung a frantic hand toward the rail of the fence above it, pulling himself up to face the pinnacle. "There are others," he called back desperately. "I could show you. Please!" Darkness shrouded the streets of Baldur's Gate below. "Please!"
He had killed. He had done murder. He had had power once and thought himself strong. Worthy.
Somehow, a company of mercenaries at his back had made all the difference.
All gone. In the blink of an eye.
He twisted back about only to find the dark man towering over him. A black fist of mail struck hard right into the side of his face …
He couldn't remember how he got down to the ground. He was lying on his side. His helm clattered uselessly away against the slick stone beneath. Darkness pressed in all around his eyes, threatening. He lay there, uncomprehending, wide-eyed, and staring.
Then a dark hand reached for him, wrapping his throat in a grip of iron. It hauled him right back up from the stone as if he were nothing. He was staring blankly into the face of the black-mailed man then. Still laughing, the dark figure forced him back and through the metal fence, metal tearing and grinding as it came apart and he went right through. His feet dangled above the precipice below.
A little bit of his mind came back when he realized he couldn't breathe anymore.
He gasped for air of a sudden. But nothing came. Only those golden eyes boring into him.
Blackness closed in. The night grew thick and alive. Throbbing. Humming.
His blood had sung once. Now it betrayed him. It withered away and left him alone. Nothing but a weak, helpless husk.
The demon's grip tightened. Rasped pleas spent the last of his air. They tumbled out of their own accord, and he could not stop them. His fist hammered into the other's mailed arm. But his blows just grew weaker … and weaker … and …
The mailed fist squeezed and someone cried aloud. He couldn't recognize the sound of his own strangled voice as it gargled loudly into the night. The crunch of his throat being crushed was the last thing that he heard.
The light faded from his eyes.
The dusky man's own golden eyes fixed upon the dead corpse he held within his hand, narrowing. He stared at it for a moment. Just a moment.
Then he cast it away with a grunt.
The body hurtled down through the night air, limbs flailing wide and limp until they abruptly struck the cobbled streets below. The crash of mail and crunch of bones against stone clamored loudly in those dead hours. Blood seeped outward, seeking sinuous paths between the rounded cobblestones.
Morning dawned red, and bloody, upon Baldur's Gate.