"Fall, fiend, and feed the earth!"
Jaheira's new staff, hastily acquired from the local traders using the Shadow Dragon's hoard, smashed into the Umar Inn's table, cracking it in two. The Innkeeper, a portly man by the name of Vincenzo, did not object. On the contrary, he was clutching at his moustache and egging her on.
"Kill it!" he shrieked. He, like most of his patrons, had leapt onto the bar for safety. "Kill it with fire! Kill it with knives! Beat it with a stick!"
"Get him! Get him!" agreed poor Bernard, who had not fled the wrath of dragons only to be confronted with this monstrosity.
"No, Jaheira, listen to me!" Coran yelped as her staff smashed against the floor, missing Bhaal by inches.
The Lord of Murder was back to being the size of a handbag dog. After Jaheira had taken a night to recover at the inn and the villagers had returned to find the dragons gone, Coran had summoned him to help explain the situation to Jaheira. With hindsight, perhaps he should have explained first and then summoned Bhaal.
"Hold still, you fetid zombie-rat!" Jaheira screamed.
JAHEIRA IT'S ME!
Bhaal whimpered as he scuttled beneath the shelter of a dining chair, his sad little claws click-clicking on the floorboards. The druid advanced on the trembling canine, slowing him with vines as she spoke.
"Oh, I know it's you, Freya!" she seethed. "I don't know how it's you, but a skinned-alive, potty-mouthed dog hanging out with Coran cannot possibly be coincidence!"
THEN WHY ARE YOU ATTACKING ME, YOU MAD GOBLIN HAG?
Bhaal howled, as the chair he was crouching under was beaten aside with one swipe of Jaheira's staff and splintered against the opposite wall.
LEAVE ME ALONE!
"This is for leading Khalid to his death!" screamed Jaheira, smacking the whimpering dog across the muzzle. "This is for leaving Arowan to rot in a jail cell and this…" she slammed her staff with all her strength over the pitiful creature's exposed cranium, cracking his skull. "Is for failing to defeat Irenicus!"
The party caught a split-second glance of Bhaal's brain before he flickered out of existence and back to the Abyss. It looked like lots of different coloured blobs mushed awkwardly together. Her fellow drinkers hopped down off the bar, cheering. Jaheira leaned on her staff, face flushed with fury and panting heavily.
"An exceptionally fine blow, if I may say so my lady," Anomen complimented her graciously.
"That was a bit harsh," Coran began awkwardly.
"Be grateful that I don't do the same to you, idiot child!" Jaheira berated the elf who was many decades her senior. "I understand that her death was hard on you, but reviving some shade or whatever that unnatural thing was won't…"
"Bhaal."
"Excuse me?"
Coran nodded to Anomen, who hastily steered Jaheira back upstairs, while the elf shamefacedly paid for the damage and asked Vincenzo to send up some lunch. He clumped up the stairs after them, rubbing his arm ruefully. It was a crisscross of little slices now from all the times he had summoned Bhaal, but none of these wounds bothered him nearly so much as the scar about his neck. Sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat, imagining that it was tightening on him.
He reached Anomen's room to find Jaheira sat on the end of the bed, arms folded and glaring.
"That thing was…" he began, but Jaheira cut him off.
"Anomen explained it while you were paying Vincenzo," she snapped. "However, what both of us are struggling to understand is why you keep summoning him. He isn't Freya, not really. Freya wasn't even Freya! She was Bhaal all along, you do understand that don't you?"
"If Freya was really Bhaal, then Bhaal is really Freya," Coran retorted stubbornly. He wore the expression of a small child caught pulling the stuffing out of an armchair.
Jaheira and Anomen exchanged a look. The elf felt like a naughty toddler whose parents were putting up a united front to discipline him. It grated considering that he was more than double their combined age. Guiltily, he slipped his hand into his pack and twirled the Girdle of Femininity around his wrist.
"Open your eyes Coran. Bhaal is using you. He's the god of murder," Jaheira said flatly.
"He's my best mate."
"Your best friend is dead," Anomen told him staunchly. "She died in Irenicus's dungeon along with Khalid. You must come to terms with this, you foolish pickpocket! I know not what Bhaal is scheming but-"
"The same thing we are!" Coran burst in frustration. His emerald eyes were burning and his face turning a shade of pink which clashed horribly with his auburn hair. "He has more cause to stop Arowan than anybody, he's the one who will be detonated if she succeeds. That means he'll die! Permanently this time!"
"Every cloud…" muttered Anomen.
"We have the Servant of all Faiths," snapped Jaheira rising to her feet. "We have the support of all living gods, we don't need help from a dead one."
"And there's something else," said Coran. "Bhaal still carries a divine debt to the Silvershield family. This is his last chance to pay it back. If he dies with it hanging over him the dead god's soul will never rest. He has to restore the soul of Skie Silvershield."
Jaheira opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again uneasily. The unfortunate situation in Baldur's Gate was entirely her doing. She had taken Bodhi's phylactery to Baldur's Gate, and placed the gruesome coat on Skie's shoulders. Normally a phylactery could not control its wearer, but a body without a soul was a unique situation, and Skie's currently resided in the Soultaker Dagger. Duke Silvershield was so unpopular that Bodhi could practically rule the city while wearing Skie's face.
"How does Bhaal plan to restore Skie?" Jaheira asked carefully. "Where is the Soultaker Dagger? Does Arowan still have it?"
Anomen swallowed. They had been careful to avoid the subject of the Adversary as far as possible while Jaheira was recovering, but Keldorn was already leading the Order south to face her and they would need to ride after him soon.
"Yes my lady," he replied hesitantly.
Jaheira strode over to the window and flung it open, scowling at the distant fields and woods. She was as culpable for the situation in Baldur's Gate as anyone. As a Harper, it was her responsibility to undo the damage even if that meant allying herself with…
"Summon him back. Summon Bhaal."
Coran nodded and did so. As the tiny dog emerged, the first thing it did was snarl at Jaheira. She seized him by the scruff of his neck (or at least by his spine, strictly speaking there was no scruff on a skinless dog).
She was about to say something when a piercing scream rang from outside the tavern.
"Helm's beard, now what?" roared Anomen, grabbing his shield and pelting down the stairs, closely followed by his companions. He stopped dead at the entrance to the Umar Inn and groaned audibly. "Not you again!"
Firkraag was back, curled up and yawning atop the ruined fountain, dangling something shiny between his claws.
"How rude," the scarlet dragon sniffed. "I come all this way to bring you a token from my own hoard and you greet me like this…"
Anomen squinted up at the shiny object that Firkraag was waving tantalizingly above him. Despite himself, his jaw dropped.
"We want none of your gifts, wyrm!" screeched Jaheira. She had not forgotten their last encounter which (for reasons involving a troll chef and copious dragon spittle) had not gone well. Suffice it to say that where Firkraag was concerned, Jaheira was not keen.
"N… no… I think we do want this one. Pardon, my lady, but I believe he is offering us…"
"…Casomyr." Firkraag confirmed smugly. He dropped it, and the blade whistled down to the ground, wedging itself up to the hilt.
It took Anomen and Coran's combined efforts to yank it out again. The red dragon had spotted Bhaal dangling from Jaheira's fist, and was glaring at him contemptuously.
"Well, well, dragon slayer," he gloated, grinning like a crocodile. Clearly the dragon had neither forgiven nor forgotten Bhaal's earlier attempts to pick a fight. "You seem somewhat diminished since last we spoke."
Firkraag idly flicked Bhaal from Jaheira's grasp with his claw and squashed him flat with one talon as the former god lay writhing on the ground. He made a most satisfying squelch.
"Great, now I have to slice myself again," muttered Coran, as Bhaal popped out of the mortal plane and Firkraag snickered.
Reluctantly, Coran summoned Bhaal for the third time that day. This time, as the mutilated dog returned from the Abyss, he scrambled straight into the safety of Coran's satchel, peering out with his wide lidless eyes.
"Casomyr," Anomen breathed, awestruck. He was holding the blade aloft, though to Coran it looked like any other pointy stick. "A weapon of legend. Perhaps one of the most powerful blades ever forged in Faerun. They say that it is infused with the very essence of valour and virtue. A bane to the forces of evil and chaos."
Firkraag cleared his scaly throat.
"To be clear, human, I donate this artefact to the Order on the understanding that it is to be used to oppose the Adversary. Under no circumstances are your kind to abuse my generosity by attempting to turn this blade on me. Such an act would meet with… severe retribution."
"I understand."
"As in roasting-your-grandmothers-retribution," Firkraag snarled.
Coran pulled a face. "That's open to misinterpretation," he said, wrinkling his nose.
Firkraag was unimpressed. He roared with a force that shook the foundations of nearby buildings. He spread his wings to their fullest extent, blocking out the sun and reared. Coran felt Bhaal digging to bury himself beneath the potions in his satchel.
"My network stretches to the four corners of the world. Its threads weave into every village and city! Casomyr is to be used to aid the Servant of all Faiths in defeating the Adversary. If I hear so much as a whisper from my agents of the Order conspiring to use it against me, I will eat your wives and pickle your eyeballs! I will crush your houses and stamp out your legacies. Not one member of your families- not even your fourth cousins by marriage twice removed- none will escape my wrath! Is that open to misinterpretation, elf?"
"Um… no, that seems clear enough," Coran mumbled.
"In that case," grinned Firkraag, opening his talons invitingly, "Let us go."
Anomen looked confused, then as he realised what the dragon was suggesting he started backing away shaking his head.
"Walking will take weeks. Horses will take days. I can get you to Tethir in hours," Firkraag snapped impatiently.
Coran was far keener on the suggestion. Flying by dragon sounded like a fine caper to him and he scrambled into Firkraag's left talon. The beast closed his claws about him, one between his legs so that he could straddle it like a seat, and two more forming a harness over his shoulders. Coran shifted and wrapped his arms about the dragon's foot for extra security.
With a sigh Jaheira followed into the right talon, where she was reluctantly joined by Anomen. As the scaley foot closed around them, the two were forced into uncomfortably close proximity.
"Where in Tethir? Tethir is huge," said Coran.
"Find Sir Keldorn's army and land us there!" Anomen suggested.
"Absolutely not, they'll attack me," Firkraag retorted.
AS CLOSE TO SARADUSH AS YOU CAN SAFELY LAND US. THAT'S WHERE THE SERVANT OF ALL FAITHS IS, BUT BE CAREFUL. THE CITY IS UNDER SIEGE.
Everyone stared at the satchel containing Bhaal. For a moment the god did not emerge, but once he was confident that he was not about to be beaten to death or crushed again, he poked his ugly head out of it, sniffing.
"How do you know?" demanded Anomen crossly.
VICONIA, SAREVOK AND RASAAD KILLED ME THERE SEVERAL TIMES YESTERDAY.
"What are you talking about?" snapped Jaheira.
"Every time a Bhaalspawn dies they become incorporated back into him," explained Coran. "He remembers everything they remember."
ONLY A FEW MORE TO GO AND I'M BACK BABY!
Bhaal reflected happily. With the death of the last Bhaalspawn he would ascend once more and all of the misery of his numerous mortal lives would be worth it. He curled up in the satchel, running through the new collection of memories that had been added to his personality. Some happy, some sad, many embarrassing. It was becoming easier to assimilate the extra personalities as time went on. Like an increasingly large lake of water, each new drop made less of a difference.
"Saradush it is then," yawned Firkraag, stretching his wings ready for take-off.
"Um…?"
They all looked down. Bernard was hovering nervously at the door to the Umar Inn. He was wobbling all over like a soft, pale jelly. Anomen and Coran exchanged a guilty glance. They had quite forgotten about their Harper driver.
"I… I don't need to come do I? Jaheira?"
"No Bernard," replied the druid, as kindly as her harsh voice would allow. "I want you to go back to Baldur's Gate and keep me posted on the situation there. You can contact me by the usual channels."
"Yes ma'am. Pigeons it is," Bernard blustered in relief.
With a flap of his wings that made their hair whip about their faces, Firkraag took off into the glorious afternoon sky. The world below shrank smaller and smaller beneath them until it was a mere patchwork of fields dotted with doll towns. Coran laughed delightedly, and Bhaal poked his lolling head out of the bag, fleshless ears flickering in the breeze. Even Anomen, once he could bring himself to look down, had to acknowledge that the view was magnificent.
A tall slender man in plain grey robes slipped out from between lines of Dark Moon monks. Beyond the river protecting his latest temple, repurposed from a dwarven mine, lurked a pale waif of a creature.
Night had closed in upon the river's inky waters, but she was lit by the glow of two torches. One in her own skeletal little hands, another much larger, carried by the half-orc at her side.
From her wavy brown hair and freckles to her white gloves and the robes she was wearing that had clearly been made for someone much larger, she seemed utterly harmless. Alorgoth knew better. This (if the undead emissaries she sent lurching into the complex were to be believed) was the Adversary herself.
His monks had destroyed the first dozen zombie messengers without bothering to disturb him. This had not perturbed her in the slightest. She had simply kept sending them one after another, each enchanted to repeat one simple message. The Adversary wishes to speak to the Doombringer.
Eventually, nervously, they had relayed the invitation to him.
"Should we attack, master?" enquired an oily acolyte. Alorgoth raised a single palm to shut him up.
"Remain here. I will speak with her."
"Alone? Is that wise?" gasped the acolyte, who was quite new to Shar's cult.
Alorgoth turned around slowly. Instinctively, the Dark Moon monks nearest to the acolyte took a step backward. Yet the expected retribution did not come.
"No," he mused. "You may accompany me if you wish."
The acolyte regretted speaking up, but there was nothing for it now. He followed his master across a creaking drawbridge, tugging his cloak about him as defence against the chill night air. As they drew closer to the waif and her half-orc bodyguard, the temperature seemed to drop.
"Good evening, Alorgoth," the waif greeted him pleasantly. "And who is this you've brought with you?"
"I'm nobody important!" squeaked the acolyte. As a servant of Shar he was accustomed to some pretty dark stuff but there was something about the Adversary's empty stare that gave him the creeps.
"Something I'm sure we can all agree on," Alorgoth noted frostily, eyeing the acolyte with dislike. "How did you recognize me and how came you by this temple?"
Arowan lifted one hand and began to idly tug the fingers of her white gloves. Behind her, shapes were moving in the darkness. As a cleric, Alorgoth could sense the presence of undead and even bend them to his will, but the numbers were vast. Controlling so many at once was far beyond the abilities of an average necromancer, though not unheard of. He himself had raided tombs for artefacts where hundreds, perhaps thousands, of undead minions remained trained to their master's control.
"I saw you at the Twofold Temple when your monks unsuccessfully attacked it." She laid a delicate stress on the word unsuccessfully.
"I do not recall your face."
"Nobody ever does," Arowan smiled wanly. "As for how I knew about this place…"
She beckoned idly and a bald zombie broke ranks and stepped forward. Clearly this necromancer had made more effort with him than the others. Not a spec of rot had been allowed to grow upon his tattooed flesh. Months of preservation in the frozen gully of the Cloud Peak mountains had caused his lips to shrink back from his teeth and his eyes were milky white, yet there was no mistaking his former pupil.
"Gamaz yn Bashir," Alorgoth noted indifferently. "Do you expect me to be intimidated by this ridiculous gesture, little girl? This Sun Soul cretin was as weak in life as he is in death."
"I didn't bring him back for your benefit," Arowan replied, tracing her fingers over the tattoos on Gamaz's chest, just as she had once done with his brother when the two of them had been lovers. "He's a little surprise for Rasaad yn Bashir, but I was able to extract your location from what few echoes remain of his mind."
"Tell this little human the plan. We don't have all night," grunted Dorn impatiently. There was scarce prospect of a battle tonight, which meant that the Blackguard wasn't interested.
"Yes do," Alorgoth smiled like a reptile.
"You want Viconia out of the way so that you can take her place as the Servant of all Faiths, Shar's Elect, yada yada," Arowan said waving her hand. "I also want rid of her for obvious reasons. As luck would have it Rasaad is obsessed with you and Viconia is obsessed with Rasaad. If we lure him here to face you, she will follow. You spring a trap… takes care of that problem."
"You would have to trap her though," Dorn filled in an important detail that Arowan had left out. "It is not possible to simply kill the Servant of all Faiths. Believe me, it is not for lack of trying."
"Of course… there's nothing to say you couldn't blind her or cut off her feet," Arowan suggested helpfully.
Nobody thought to ask her what the purpose of chopping off the drow's feet would be if Viconia was already trapped. Both Dorn and Alorgoth were perfectly comfortable with the notion of violence for its own sake.
"Do you think me a fool?" Alorgoth hissed. "You would not suggest this if you believed that I could replace Viconia as the Chosen One."
Arowan smiled. It was a glassy, empty smile. Her eyes were not on him but fixed upon a distant star twinkling lightyears beyond the back of his head.
"Of course not," she agreed. "But from your point of view it hardly matters what I think, does it? The real question is whether you think you ought to be the Chosen One."
"We will be sending Rasaad your way with or without your cooperation," growled Dorn, who had little respect for Arowan's convoluted machinations. "Prepare or don't, it is of no consequence to us."
"I mean… it's of some consequence," Arowan corrected delicately.
Dorn lowered his broad face to her, his black eyes sparkling with malice. The emaciated necromancer barely registered him.
"I had thought, Little Lamb, that I might find you less irritating once you took up the mantle of the Adversary. I see now that I was wrong."
"Be that as it may…" sighed Arowan, indifferently.
"Very well," Alorgoth hissed suddenly. "You have a deal, fallen one. A temporary truce while we remove Shar's false priestess. I will banish her to the Shadow Realms from which there can be no escape. While she slowly starves in the darkness, I shall come for you!"
Arowan smiled at him glassily.
"How nice."
That night, as the zombies lumbered about aimlessly, Arowan chewed over her next move. Dorn cooked a stew made from hells-knew what meat the undead had butchered for them. He stirred it in a pot dangling over the only fire in their camp. As always, persuading the ranger to eat it was a nuisance, but there was also a new problem.
"You appear to be bleeding," he noted.
"Indeed…" Arowan nodded vaguely. She shuffled around some little stones which he could only assume represented the pawns in her cold, scheming mind. He wondered which pebble represented himself.
Dorn slopped a large splash of the stew into her bowl and added some water to cool it. Then he stood over her and made her eat. A brief flicker of irritation crossed her face, and her mind kept wandering. At one point she forgot to swallow and choked.
"You cannot fulfil your destiny without a functioning body!" he snarled. "Take care of yourself, wretch!"
"My body doesn't need to last very long," she reassured him. "But thank you for reminding me about food. Staying alive is necessary… for now…"
Dorn was about to storm away, but he could not bear to let the situation stand. Personal hygiene was hardly the half-orc's forte but even he had his limits.
"Your time of month is upon you!" he stated bluntly.
"Indeed."
"Aren't you going to do something about it?"
She looked down at her stained robes and then up at Dorn. Not so much as a twitch of embarrassment, humour, defiance or any other feeling crossed her face.
"Whatever for?"
"Why did you take basic care of yourself before the Numbing Potions?"
Arowan tilted her head to one side to consider the question.
"I don't know really," she replied. "I did a lot of things that were not necessary… that were not important… Destroying the evil is all that matters now. I have no interest in petty aesthetics."
"If that is true, take off the Charisma Ring. You have no further use for my gift."
With a shrug, Arowan did as he had requested. The Blackguard had seen many horrible things in his lifetime (and caused most of them) but he had not been prepared for this. While wearing the Charisma Ring, she had radiated an aura of waif-like glamour. Without it, her true appearance was barely human.
The scar that Viconia had left on her cheek had taken over half of her face from the ranger's obsessive scratching of it. Her teeth were furry and yellow from months of neglect, large chunks of her hair were missing and there was a yellowish tinge to her blotchy skin. Lifeless eyes stared out at him. Were they not blinking, Dorn might have imagined that he was seeing a half-decomposed corpse.
"Put it back on again," he said hoarsely.
The fallen ranger shrugged her bird-like shoulders and complied. She didn't care. Not about that, not about anything. She placed the ring back on her finger and at once her shrunken appearance took on a more palatable vibe.
"Well, that was interesting," remarked Melissan.
The redheaded woman was the only true colour in the camp and she looked highly out of place. Nevertheless, she strode confidently through ranks of uncaring zombies, stopping in front of Arowan with a contemptuous sneer.
"Who are you?" thundered Dorn. Arowan smiled, winding the Charisma Ring about her finger.
"I was wondering when you would show up."
"You know who I am?"
"Amelyssan I presume. I knew you'd turn up sooner or later. Erowan told us about you. That you had a way to locate us all and sweep all the droplets back into the lake. Are you going to attempt to murder me now? I have to say, I don't much fancy your chances."
Amelyssan's face twisted into a scowl.
"I will deal with Erowan later," she muttered darkly. "But for now, Bhaalspawn, I come with a warning. The fire giant Bhaalspawn, Yaga-Shura, is invincible. Even if your army defeats his, he will obliterate you. Luckily for you, I believe I know where the secret behind his power might be found. If you're lucky you might even be able to catch Sarevok at the same time."
Arowan fiddled with the tips of her gloves, before turning her frigid eyes to Bhaal's priestess.
"I'm listening."