Dungeons & Dragons Baldur's Gate (Updates Sundays)

[The Original Sixth]

Baldur's Gate

Prologue

The soft moonlight poured into the high windows of the Great Library. Countless books lined shelves that went from floor to ceiling. The halls and large chambers of the library were empty. Except for the laughter. The cold, hard laughter.

Abdel ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He dashed through open doors and large open libraries, past empty work tables and towering shelves with books as thick as his arm. Behind him came the heavy sound of metal boots, the soft clink and scrap of metal, and the laughter. The horrible laughter.

Abdel gathered the courage to look back. Far in the distance, yet close enough that he could not escape were the pale yellow eyes. They met his and Abdel felt a shiver ran through his body. Another deep, terrible laugh escaped from the darkness with the eyes. Abdel screamed and ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He had to get to the roof, he knew. The light of the dawn would save him.

Abdel came to a hall that split two ways; one left, one right. On the wall of the crossroads, he knew he would find an ancient tapestry that told of the Tree of Life. Instead, he found Gorion. The old man had been nailed to the wall by a massive two-handed sword that had impaled him through the chest. Blood leaked from his mouth and tears were in his eyes.

“Father!” Abdel cried. He grabbed his father, desperate to find a way to save him, but knowing that he couldn’t.

HIs father raised his head. “I...I tried to keep him from you...but...he has found you...run boy...run!”

Cold laughter echoed from behind. Abdel turned and saw the pale yellow eyes. They had grown closer. Abdel looked to his father, but his head had fallen lopsided. He was dead. Abdel turned and ran. He had to get to the roof and the light of dawn. It would save him and his father.

Abdel reached the spiral stairs of one of the towers of the Great Library. Hope sang in his heart and the laughter turned into a snarl.

“You cannot escape me!” the voice screamed in fury.

Abdel grinned as if in answer. He always did. Abdel raced up the spiral stairs. His heart pounded. Halfway up, he tripped on a pair of bodies. Abdel did not recognize them, but pain stabbed him nonetheless. Behind him came the clink and scrape of metal. Alarm grabbed his heart. There had never been bodies there before. Abdel crawled over the bodies and ran for the top of the tower. He found the heavy old wooden door to the balcony that would overlook dawn and set it all right.

Abdel stopped short. Nailed to the door by knives was the withered body of Imoen. Her red hair had been chopped short and cuts covered her body. She stirred at his coming. Her dull green eyes found his blue. “Abdel…” she said weakly, “Why did...you leave me? He...he murdered me...he cut me…it hurt...it hurt so bad...he took it from me...he took it…”

Shocked and terrified, Abdel took a step back.

“And now…” the tears flowed down her face, “He’s found you…”

A deep, dark laughter came from behind Abdel. He spun around and saw the thing that had haunted his dreams for years. It at first seemed like a demon of iron and spines that stood like a man. It had a massive head with large curved horns and a jaw full of teeth, in which the pale yellow eyes sat. Upon its breast were the skull of a man and around it were tears of its victims. It took Abdel a moment to realize that the monster was a man inside a plate of armor.

It laughed. “I have you. There will be no dawn now.”

“No. No!” Abdel screamed.

Abdel turned and shouldered into Imoen and the door. Both disintegrated upon his impact an Abdel stumbled onto the balcony. He had reached the top of Candle Keep and the dawn. Or so he had thought. Abdel realized that he was no longer in Candlekeep, but upon a large many story building that overlooked a great and massive city. Abdel stared at the sight, dumbfounded.

“Where...where am I?”

“The end.”

The deep voice was behind him. Abdel felt his heart skip a beat. A strong, heavy hand of iron slammed him across the back. Abdel was thrown across the flat roof of the building and rolled like a rag doll. For a moment he was dazed. Terror seized him, but he could not make his body move. The killer was going to get him.

Abdel looked around for an escape. The killer was between him and the stairs. A tall iron fence twice his height surrounded the roof. With horrible realization, Abdel knew that there was no escape. He looked up to the towering killer. Hot tears rolled down his face.

“Please...please don’t.” He begged.

Blood dripped from the clawed gauntlets. “There is no escape. I will find you.”

Abdel’s limbs began to shake. “No...please...there are others...take them…take them first...”

A thick, powerful hand took him up by the throat. Abdel tried to pry the hands off him, but he could not weaken its grasp. The killer held him over the side of the building. The iron fence had vanished. Below him loomed the city, as if the top of the building were in the clouds. Abdel kicked and screamed.

“No, no!” he wailed. “Please! I can help you! Take the others! Take them first! Please!”

There was a deep chuckle. The pale eyes flared with glee. “I shall be the end. You are the beginning.”

Abdel heard a sickening snap. He didn’t feel it, but he knew that the killer had snapped his neck. Abdel screamed. The killer laughed and released him. Abel plunged down. The city had vanished, replaced instead with a hellscape. Abdel screamed as he fell. The flaming ground rushed to meet him.

Abdel screamed as he hit the floor of his room. He leapt to his feet, body sweating and heart pumping. At once he had known that it hadn’t been real. Or had it? Abdel shuddered. The dream had been both fantastic and believable at once. For a brief moment, Abdel was not sure what was real and what was not.

“Abdel? Abdel, is everything alright?”

A gentle light filled the room. Abdel turned to see Gorion, his father, in the doorway of his room. His father held a small glowing orb in his right hand. His father was a skilled magi, served within Candlekeep as one of its most learned sages. At what seemed like it’s own will, the small orb of light floated to the ceiling and highlighted his foster father’s concerned face.

“Abdel?” he repeated. “What happened?”

Abdel breathed easier. “Nothing. Sorry. Nightmare.”

His father frowned. “I have never heard you scream like that. What was it?”

The image of is father’s throat being torn open returned to him. The pale yellow eyes the instant that they had dropped Abdel from the building burned in his mind. He shuddered. “I-I don’t remember.” He lied.

His father seemed concerned. “You don’t remember anything?”
“I...there was…” Abdel shook his head. No, he did not think he could explain the nightmare to anyone. “I can’t remember. Sorry. Goodnight.”

His father seemed suspicious, but he let it pass. “Goodnight.”

He and the ball of light left the room and plunged it back into darkness. Abdel got back into bed and rolled over. He tried to get back to sleep, but the laughter echoed in his mind and he slept fitfully for the rest of the night.

 

[PsihoKekec]

This takes me back.

 

[The Original Sixth]

Book One -- From Candlekeep to Dawn

Chapter One
Greengrass, 1368 DR
The Year of the Banner

It was a cool, windy spring day in Candlekeep. Abdel had just been released from his shift with the underofficers, Candlekeep’s protectors and law enforcers. He was eager to get down to the inn and have a large tankard of Bitter Black. Every spring, Wintrop purchased fresh barrels from the traveling merchants from Cormyr, who always seemed to have a bit to spare from the eager inns and taverns in Baldur’s Gate. Throughout the cold months, Abdel would be forced to rely on his go-to of Baulder’s Gate Pale or the Cormyrean Bitter Black, a good--but rather common ale.

Candlekeep was unusually busy that spring. From what Abdel had gathered from his spot upon the battlements that morning, it sounded as though the merchants were concerned for their wares, on the account of an uptick in bandits between Nashkel and Baldur’s Gate. The Keeper of the Portal had sent several caravans that had never visited the keep before away, because the merchants refused to pay the gate toll of either a generous donation of ten thousand gold or a book of equal or greater value.

Even so, some paid the fee or made arrangements. Abdel expected the keep’s small inn would be full. Already the people of the caravan had begun to explore the keep’s outer bailey, the area between the inner and outer walls. Fewer entered the inner bailey, which held the keep itself, though they were not restricted, but the inner bailey’s gardens were intended for contemplation and the monks kept it that way with terrible reprimands.

Abdel circled towards the back of the keep, where the inn was conveniently placed. Abdel entered and found it as busy as he had expected. He found that despite it being noon, the inn had only a couple of empty stools left. Abdel took one close to the wall, nearest the door. He wanted an easy view of the common room. Partly, it was what he had been trained to do as a underofficer, but he also wanted to enjoy the rarity of a full common room.

Winthrop too, seemed to enjoy the rarity. He came to the counter, his face flushed and a grin on his face. Hey! Gorion’s lad! How are you boy?”

Abdel cringed, he did not like being referred to as Gorion’s kid. He forced a smile though and laid down a few copper nibs. Nibs were the copper coins minted by the City of Waterdeep, but used extensively throughout the Sword Coast. “You got a pint of Bitter Black?”

Winthrop frowned, “Sorry, I haven’t got any.”

Abdel’s smile dropped. “What? You couldn’t have sold it all!” He looked to the common room, almost accusingly, then back to Winthrop in disbelief. “You didn’t save me any?”

Winthrop raised a hand for peace. “Hey, now!” he said, his face a bit redder. “I know how much you love your Bitter Black and if I had any, Tyr take me, I wouldn’t have cheated you out of it! I didn’t get any!”

Abdel stared at him, shocked. “Didn’t have any? What do you mean? You get it every year.”

“Well, not this year I haven’t.” Winthrop said.

Abdel stared at him. “What? But surely the snows in Cormyr have melted.”

“Cormyr snow hasn’t got a bit to do with it.” Winthrop told him. “It’s those bandits. They’re really bad between here and Baldur’s Gate. That’s why we’ve got so many caravans here. Trying to wait it out, I expect.”

“None of them have any Bitter Black?” Abdel asked in disbelief.

“None of them are from Cormyr,” Winthrop said. “Take a look. They’re all southerners.”

Abdel did and realized that Winthrop had been telling the truth. The merchants were from Amn, Tethyr, and Calimshite. Abdel hadn’t noticed, because he had expected some of them to be south of Candlekeep. Abdel slumped in his stool.

“Tell ya what,” Winthrop said, “Let me get you something I got from the south. Some Golden Sands.”

Abdel frowned. “Golden Sands? Is it good?”

“Tell ya what, first one is on me.” Winthrop said. He grinned, “But if you like it, you buy a second. Deal?”

Abdel sighed, disappointed that he would not be getting his Bitter Black. On the other hand, it was as rare as the caravans in Candlekeep that Winthrop offered anything for free. He humored the keep with a smile, “Alright, you’re on.”

Winthrop’s smile returned and he left to get him a pint. Abdel took a deep breath and felt his stomach rumble. The smell of cooked bread and chicken stew filled the common room. He hoped at least, that Winthrop had some of that stew still left. He began to feel bad about having lost his temper with the keep.

Winthrop returned with the pint. Abdel took a drink and cringed. It wasn’t...bad, but Abdel still wished for the Bitter Black. He had waited all winter and felt he’d been robbed. He put up a smile for Winthrop’s sake and thanked him. “Can I get some of that bread and stew?” he asked.

Winthrop nodded and shouted out an order to one of the two women that he occasionally employed when the inn got busy. Abdel was relieved to learn that fresh stew had been made and there was plenty of bread. Abdel thanked Winthrop and ordered another Golden Sands to go with it. When it came, Abdel ate greedily and ordered seconds. He ate his second order more slowly, more for pleasure than hunger and took in the atmosphere.

He was almost immediately drawn into a hushed conversation around the bar. The patrons were merchant guards, he learned, who eagerly discussed the latest rumors and gossip. They had been discussing the banditry problem with each other; what little had been learned of the attacks and who might be behind them.

“I heard the Flaming Fists cleared out one of their camps,” one of them, a Tethyrian, said. “They were being paid in Golden Glories!”

“Zhents!” another, who looked to be a local guard from one of the nearby villages said. “You think so? What are the Zhents doing so far west?”

“They operate a network throughout Faerun,”a guard with an Amnian accent said. “Real question is, what do they get out of it?

“Rumor has it that the Dukes of Baldur’s Gate think the Zhents are working for the Amnians.” the local guard said. “Payback for the mines.”

Another Amnian guard interjected then. “Dragon crap! Nashkel hasn’t done anything!”

The first Amnian guard chuckled and slapped him on the back. “Relax. And I hate to say it, but I wouldn’t past the Six to do something like that.”

Before the second Amnian could protest, the Tethyrian guard spoke. “Well, it doesn’t matter. My boss said that unless the Flaming Fist can put things in order, he’s going home. Reckons he can sell his Amnian wares in Calimshan or even back home without much loss. Says we got a tenday to figure it out before the monks here toss us out.”

The Amnian snorted. “What’s wrong? Doesn’t he trust you lot to see him through?”

“He trusts us!” the Tethyrian protested, “But...well...well, Frank was testing out his sword on a stump a fortnight ago and it snapped! Clean! The damn thing was all corroded on the inside!”

A murmur went through the group of guards. Abdel took an interest. “What do you mean corroded?”

The other guards looked at him, as if stunned. The Amnian spoke. “What, you mean you haven’t heard? Do you all live under a rock?”

Abdel felt blindsided. “No. What are you talking about?”

The Tethyrian laughed. “You have no idea!”

“What’s this about?” Winthrop asked.

The Amnian answered. “About the iron.”

Winthrop’s smile faded. He looked very troubled. “Ah. That.”

Abdel looked pointedly at Winthrop. “You knew?”

“Now, don’t get started again!” Winthrop said quickly. “But yeah, I’ve heard some rumors about that.”

“What is it about?” Abdel asked.

Winthrop seemed uncertain if he should say, but relented under Abdel’s persistence. “Okay, okay! Some strange things are going on with the iron coming out of the local mines. The iron has begun to degrade and no one knows what’s going on! Not even the wizards!”

“You can’t trust anything!” one of the guards said. “From horse shoes to swords, anything made from the ore just twists, bends, and breaks. Then a few days later, it turns to dust!”

Abdel swore and a hand went to his sword. “What about old stocks?”

“Got those,” Winthrop said, “The problem is, some of the stuff that has gone bad has been out in the market for years! Why, the Gatewarden’s sword he bought back a year and a half disintegrated on him. I’d heard about it, but they seemed keen on keeping it quiet.”

“And you figured you should sell your small store of weapons, before word got out.” Abdel accused, putting two and two together.

Winthrop looked flustered. “It was good steel! And besides, I didn’t sell them to anyone who lived here!”

Abdel shook his head, but before he could say anything else, a man stumbled into view. Abdel turned to see a local guard. The man was strong and dark haired. He looked as though he had too much to drink. He giggled. “You call keep going on and on as if the answer wasn’t obvious enough! Well, I know and I ain’t telling! But you all just wait! It hasn’t even started!”
“Sod off.” one of the guards pushed him away.

The man spat at him. “Careful who you’re talking to pal!” he warned and he drew a dagger. “I may be trash now, but in a tenday, I’ll have more platinum suns than you could count!”

The other caravan guard got to his feet, but Abdel stood up and said. “That’s enough. You sir, sheat the steel or I’ll throw you out myself.”

The man turned to sneer at Abdel, but then stopped. The sneer changed into a mad laugh. “Ah ha! And there you are! I’m going to kill you and take my reward!”

Abdel had barely registered the drunk’s words when the caravan guard suddenly leapt at him, dagger in the air for a wild stab. Fortunately, the drunk man’s aim was off. Abdel caught the man by the forearm and drove his fist into his nose, breaking it. The man lost his dagger, but did not give up so easily. He sent a punch Abdel’s way and clipped his head. Abdel returned the favor, knocking out several of the man’s teeth.

The man howled and tried to wrench his hand free, but Abdel was stronger. Much stronger. The fight quickly turned one-sided and he beat the man down twice. The third time, Abdel drove his knee into the man’s gut, then threw him head first into the bar counter. There was a crack and the man went down like a sack of bricks.

The common room had gone quiet.

“Great Tempus!” one of them gasped. “You killed him!”

Abdel stared down at the man. Shocked and appalled by what he had done. There had been no need for that. He went to the man and checked him over, praying to Helm that he had not done so. He held his breath, then released it.

“He’s alive.” Abdel said.

Winthrop was there next to him. He raised his voice. “He’s right. Fella won’t be going anywhere soon though. By Tempus, you really let him have it.”

Abdel flushed. “I-I should get him to the Gatewarden. Excuse me.”

Abdel found the dagger the man had lost and pocketed it. He took unconscious man and threw him over his shoulder. He was heavy, but Abdel could bear him. A part of him hoped that it would ease his guilt of what he had done. Drunk or not, Abdel had gone too far in subduing the man. As he was leaving, Winthrop pulled him to the side. He looked pale.

“Don’t worry Abdel,” he said with a faint smile, “I saw everything. He came at you with that knife and you defended yourself. Not his fault he wouldn’t stay down.”

Abdel nodded, both relieved and guilt-stricken. Relief that he would not be punished, but knowing that he probably didn’t deserve it. Why had he done that? Abdel couldn’t think. The inn was too hot and too quiet. Abdel left with the unconscious man in a hurry.

The sky had turned gold and crimson and Abdel realized that what had seemed like only a short time had actually been hours. A strong wind came at his back from the Sword Coast. The gatehouse, where the jail was located, was on the other side of the keep. Normally, Abdel would have gone around, to avoid disturbing any of the monks within the gardens, but the press of weight on his conscious caused him to take a shortcut through the gardens.

To his surprise, the garden was deprived of monks. He supposed they must have turned in early or else had gone in to study within the Great Library; the great keep itself. Abdel was halfway through the gardens when a clear, strong voice made him jump and nearly dropped the unconscious man. He looked around and saw several men in bright robes marching around the perimeter of the gardens.

Abdel relaxed. It was just the Chanter and the voices of the four winds.

“The Lord of Murder shall perish!” the Chanter proclaimed, “But in his doom, he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos shall be sown in their passing. So sayeth the wise Alaundo!”

Abdel felt a shiver run up his spine. He glanced over guiltily at unconscious man over his shoulder. Murder. The blurry image of him ramming the man into the counter came back to him. Had it been rage? No. He had felt himself grinning. He felt for his face, fearful that it might still be there. Abdel shuddered. Did he enjoy killing?

“Abdel? What are you doing?”

Abdel jumped. He relaxed when he saw it was only Tethtoril. The old priest sat upon a bench. He gave the young underofficer a look over. “Who is that? What happened to him?”

It took Abdel a moment to clear his throat. “Some cur, First Reader. He attacked me without provocation at the inn. I subdued him. I’m taking him to a Watcher. He’ll be put out in the morning.”

Tethtoril’s eyes seemed to look into his soul. The old priest stood and approached Abdel. “He is badly injured. He will not live through the night.”

Abdel felt his throat constrict. “N-no. I’ll see that he has help. One of the priests can see to…”

Tethtoril held up a hand for silence. He stared at Abdel hard. “Lay him upon the path.”

Abdel felt his mouth go dry. Slowly, he placed the dying man upon the path. Tethtoril walked to stand beside the unconscious man. He bent low and placed a hand upon the man’s brow and spoke in a low voice. “Mystra, Great Lady of Mysteries. Your humble servant prays for you to look upon this fool and take pity. He is not ready. Let him be spared a short time.”

Suddenly, a light blue light engulfed the dying man’s body. The brutal wounds that Abdel had inflicted upon the man closed and vanished, without ever having appeared to have ever been. Abdel gasped at the miracle.

The light faded. The old priest stood. He looked at Abdel, his eyes softer. “I pray the fool does not make the same mistake twice.”

Abdel realized who the First Reader had spoken of in his prayer. He blanched. The old priest nodded and said, “By the miracle of Mystra, your decision has been postponed Abdel, but the day will come when you will make your decision.”
Abdel tried to speak, but found that he couldn’t.

Tethtoril turned and walked away. “You should take your criminal to the Watcher, Abdel. And tell Imoen I said she should go home and get some sleep. Winthrop will need help cleaning tomorrow.”

Abdel couldn’t say anything. He watched the priest go, then bent down and picked up the unconscious man whom he had nearly killed. The priest’s words haunted him as he carried the criminal to the gatehouse. For a reason he could not explain, he was reminded of that terrible nightmare he had the night before. He wondered, had he looked that terrifying to the man over his shoulders as the terrible killer in his nightmare?

Adel was greeted by another underofficer at the gatehouse, who helped him inside with the criminal. Inside the gatehouse, one of the Watchers took charge. “What in the Nine Hells happened to him?” he demanded.

“Bastard came at me with a knife.” Abdel told him and he explained what had happened, though he made no mention of the wounds he had inflicted upon the criminal.

The Watcher snorted. “I’ll throw him out with the rest of the trash in the morning.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Abdel said. “I should be going now…”

“Oh, wait.” The Watcher said. “It’s good you stopped by. I need you to escort someone.”

After his ordeal, Abdel felt eager to help in any way he could. “Sure, who is it?”

“Why,” the Watcher grinned, “Your best friend.”

Abdel groaned.

*******

“Thanks for getting me off the hook Abdel, I owe you one.”

Abdel and Imoen walked from the gatehouse. Imoen was his childhood friend. Her mother had come to the keep seeking shelter. The woman had been weak from exposure. Ulraunt, the Keeper of the Tomes and as stingy as bastard as Abdel had ever met, had refused her entry, but Winthrop had taken pity upon the woman and promised to take in the baby girl. Imoen had auburn hair and bright green eyes. She had a round face and a full figure. She wore plain dresses, but typically of pink or purple. She was a constant trouble maker in the keep. Even Abdel’s father, who had thought she held potential as a mage, had been unable to tame her.

Abdel was in a poor mood. “You really are thick, aren’t you? You’re too old to be pickpocketing Imoen. If Ulraunt had heard what you’d done, he would have…”

Imoen snorted, “Old Buzzard? Please. He wouldn’t kick me out. Besides, it was just a few copper. It’s not like when you accidentally set that book on fire.”

“Shut up! Abdel shot Imoen a venomous look.

Imoen gave him a playful nudge. “Oh c’mon, don’t be like that. I’m sorry, okay? I promise I’ll keep out of trouble.”

Abdel shook his head. “Candlekeep isn’t a playground Imoen and we’re not kids anymore. These monks won’t tolerate us like they did when we were kids.”

Imoen gave another snort. “Is that what you called it? One of those old windbags beat me silly with his walking stick because I’d knocked over a stack of his books.”

“Those books were worth more than a hundred men.” Abdel said.

Imoen shrugged.

“Tethtoril said you should go help Winthrop with the cleaning tomorrow.” Abdel said.

Imoen raised a brow. “Tethtoril?”

Abdel nodded. Tethtoril always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone. Imoen let out an exasperated sigh. “Guess I’m scrubbing floors tomorrow then.”

It was late then. Imoen and Abdel had taken the long way around to the inn. Abdel would make sure that the young girl would get to the inn before he went to the small hut that he and Gorion lived in. As one of the eight Great Leaders and a personal friend to Ulraunt, the Keeper of the Tomes, Gorion alone seemed to have managed that feat.

“Glad the crowd has cleared out,” Imoen said. The keep had gotten quieter since earlier that day. Abdel guesses she must have been arrested before he had even gotten off his shift.

Abdel snorted. “I thought you liked it when the keep got busy?”

Imoen smiled. “I do! But with all the crazy stuff you here these days, I almost wished they hadn’t come at all, you know? I mean, why do they have to bring their problems here?”

“They bring their troubles with them,” Abdel said, understanding her sentiment.

“Whose that?” Imoen asked.

Abdel looked to see a man hanging around the hut that he and Gorion shared. He frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s lost,” he raised his voice to the man. “Can I help you sir?” he called to the man as they approached the hut.

“Yeah!” The man called as he started toward them. “I’m looking for Gorion’s whelp. You seen him?”

Abdel frowned. Who took in the man. He had oily black hair and a scruffy mustache. He wore the uniform of one of the caravan guards. “Is this about the man we jailed? He broke our laws. He’ll be thrown out in the morning. If you want, you can speak to the Keeper of the Tomes if you…”

The man laughed. “I ain’t here to talk about that.” the man said. He closed to within a few paces and reached for something under his tunic. “I’m here to deliver a message.”

Abdel frowned. “A message? What is it?”

“Your death!” the man made a sudden motion and yanked a dagger free from somewhere with his other hand. Abdel jerked, too surprised to respond. A blur of something small flew into the man's face. The attacker’s head jerked back in surprise and he gave a yelp of pain. The hesitation was brief, but for Abdel it added the time he needed.

Abdel grabbed the man by the wrist that held the dagger and tried to twist it out of his grasp. The man, despite his small size, held onto the dagger and delivered a punch to Abdel’s head. Abdel jerked, but held onto the man’s wrist. He threw back his own punch, but at the last moment, he aimed low and caught the man in the shoulder. The attacker grunted, but Abdel had not hit anything important. The man responded with two quick blows to his head.

“Die you bastard!” the man snarled. “I need those thousand golden glories!”

The man delivered several more blows to Abdel. Abdel wasn’t idle, but each blow he threw at the man he aimed at a shoulder or chest. Something held him from delivering a blow that would have put the man down in one stroke. Abdel felt frustration build, but he couldn’t bring himself to strike at the man down. The man laughed. “You’re big, but stupid! Guess your old man never taught you how to fight!”

“Help! Help!” Imoen shouted. “Help!”

“Shut up girl!” the man snarled as he delivered a heavy blow to Abdel. Abdel felt his grip on the wrist loosen. The assassin began to slip his wrist free. “You’re next!”

Something broke. Abdel let out a roar. He twisted the man’s arm and felt it snap like a twig. The man howled. Abdel jerked him forward and kneed him in the gut. The man doubled over. Abdel struck his exposed neck with a hammerfist. The criminal went to the ground, dazed and confused. Abdel heaved. He raised a boot, ready to break the man’s neck when something broke his haze.

“You got him!”

Abdel blinked. He turned and saw Imoen. A cold sweat came over Abdel. He took a deep breath and backed away from the man he had nearly killed. Nearly killed. Again. Abdel looked around, unsure of what he should do. He spotted the dagger. He picked it up from the ground. Slowly, the man began to rise.

“Abdel!” Imoen warned.

“I see him.” Abdel said. Somehow, taking hold of the dagger had brought him back to his wits. The assassin started to regain his balance. Abdel strode forward and delivered a hard, but measured blow to his jaw. The man fell back to the ground.

By then two underofficers had arrived. They interposed themselves between Abdel and the assassin. Abdel and Imoen explained what had happened. The assassin had his hands tied and was searched. The watcher had arrived and took charge. One of the items in his possession was a rolled piece of parchment that caused the watcher’s eyes to go wide. He looked from the parchment to Abdel, then back to the parchment. He whispered an order one of the underofficers, who ran off towards the keep.

“What’s that?” Abdel asked.

The watcher rolled the parchment up. “Something of concern only for the Keeper of the Tomes, Abdel.” he told him. He turned to the other underofficer. “We’ll take him and stow him with the other one. He must be guarded at all times. Understood?”

“Yes Watcher.”

The watcher turned to Abdel. “Get some sleep Abdel. I...I don’t think you will be reporting to your duties tomorrow.”
“What!” Abdel protested. He stepped forward. “Why? What am I accused of?”

“He stopped him from killing me!” Imoen protested. “Isn’t that his job?”

The watcher looked at Imoen. “Be quiet girl. This doesn’t concern you.” He looked to Abdel. “Abdel, the matter is delicate. I cannot tell you why. Please be patient. The Keeper will settle the matter soon, I’m sure.”

Abdel seethed. He nearly punched the watcher. It must have shown on his face, because the watcher took a step back. That realization caused Abdel to pull back. He took a deep breath and pushed down the anger and resentment. “I’m sorry…” he told the watcher. “You’re right, of course.”

The watcher gave a look around and lowered his voice. “Look, I know he doesn’t like you...but you did nothing wrong Abdel. We’ll set this straight Abdel. You have my word.”

Abdel breathed easier. “Thank you.”

The watcher thumped him on the shoulder. “Get some sleep Abdel.” He looked to Imoen and raised his voice. “And you keep your hands to yourself, young lady.”

Imoen smirked innocently. “I will.”

The watcher sighed and started, then stopped. He looked down. “Hey Abdel, is that your coin purse?”
Abdel looked down and saw that it was. He picked it up. Had it fallen loose when he and the assassin had fought? “It is. Thanks.”

“Welcome. Get some sleep.”

“Yes sir.”

“That was scary.” Imoen said.

Abdel laughed, despite himself. “Yeah. I can’t believe he just pulled a dagger on me like that! These caravan guards are nuts! Good thing you threw that rock or I’d have been a dead man.”

Imoen smirked. She slapped Abdel playfully on the arm. “You really should keep an eye on your things Abdel.”

Abdel put two and two together. “You little thief!”

Imoen laughed and practically skipped away. “See you tomorrow Abdel! Come see me and Winthrope at the inn!”

Abdel shook his head.

 

[The Original Sixth]

Chapter Two
1 Mirtul, The Year of the Banner

Abdel had waited half the night for his father to return, but the monk had not. When Abdel had awoken, his father still had not returned home. He feared that his father was angry with him. Anger occupied his mind that morning and he did not leave the hut or eat or even shave. What was the Old Buzzard up to? He knew his father and the Keeper of the Tomes had a history, might have even once been friends, but that relationship had seemingly withered over the past twenty years.

It was late morning when his father had returned home. He looked as though he had not slept all night. Seeing Abdel, he grew angry. “Get washed and dressed boy!” he snarled. “Helm’s blade, you look bent!”

Abdel muttered an apology that he soon regretted. He felt like a scolded boy. He did as he was told and returned to find his father at the table. He had his favorite pipe and was smoking thoughtfully. When he saw Abdel, he appraised him and Abdel thought he might have another thing to say, but the old monk turned and stared at the wall.

Abdel couldn’t take the suspense any longer. “So?” he asked. He was afraid to ask anything else.

“So.” his father echoed dully.

Abdel waited, but found that his patience soon came to an end. “Well? What’s happened? What did the Old…”, Abdel stopped himself, then more calmly said. “What did the Keeper of the Tomes decide?”

His father took a deep draw from his pipe. He seemed suddenly older than Abdel had ever remember seeing him before. He looked at Abdel and said. “Gather what you need.” he told him. “We’re leaving.”

Abdel did not fully register the words at first. When he did, he couldn’t understand what was happening. He had expected a suspension--expulsion from the guard at worst. Expulsion from Candlekeep? For defending himself? Abdel wondered if perhaps Tethtoril had told Ulraunt of the incident in the bar. He felt the edge of panic in his chest.

“Leave?” he gasped. “They’re...they’re throwing us out?”

His father did not speak. Abdel felt anger grab him. He slammed a hand down on the table. He felt part of it crack. “After all we’ve done for this place? That Old Buzzard throws us out? Just like that! That bastard was going to kill us!”

His father stood, his own anger flaring. “DO NOT SPEAK OF HIM THAT WAY!” he thundered. Abdel recoiled, shocked at the fury the old man could draw forth. His father raised a finger at his son. “He has done far more for both of us than you can possibly imagine, you foolish boy!”

Abdel felt a spike of shame, but it only fed into his anger. “Then why is he throwing us out?” he demanded.

“He is not!” His father said angrily. He looked at his son squarely then. “I have decided that it is time for us to leave!”

Abdel stared at his father in shock. “You decided...but...why?” he asked.

His father’s anger cooled. He put a strong hand on Abdel’s shoulder. “It is no longer safe here.” He told his son. “You and I must leave.”

“No longer safe?” Abdel couldn’t follow. What his father said was madness. Candlekeep was one of the most defensive positions outside of Baldur’s Gate.

“No questions,” his father said. “Not now. I will explain things once we have left and are safe.”

“But…”

His father tossed his pipe onto the table and grasped Abdel with both hands. With strength that seemed improbable for such an old man, he pulled him close and stared him in the eyes. “Don’t ask questions.” he growled. Abdel could see the fear in his father’s eyes and it stunned him. “We are in great danger. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t ask anything. We are leaving. Get your things. Do you understand?”

Abdel nodded dully.

His father released him. “I have already made all the arrangements.” he told his son. He reached down on the table and plucked up a small purse. “This is for Winthrop. I’ve ordered a gambeson and sword for you and a pack with gear for traveling. Here is the list.”

His father produced a rolled piece of parchment. “Be sure we have everything. Once we leave, we cannot be sure when we will get to restock again. Understood?”

Abdel could only nod.

“Then get going,” his father said. “We leave by high noon. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then go.”

Abdel left for the inn. The common room was full, but everyone seemed to stick to themselves or in little groups. Winthrop and Imoen were behind the bar counter. The two had been working to clean the mugs when Abdel had walked in. Imoen looked up and smiled, but Winthrop seemed sullen.

“Hey Abdel!” she said cheerfully. She seemed to sense his mood. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Abdel said. He could not keep the heaviness out of his voice. He looked to Winthrop. “Is it ready?”

Winthrop nodded. He seemed devoid of joy. “This way. Stay here girl.” he said, before Imoen could follow them.

The two quietly went into the backroom. Winthrop lit a lantern and led them down into the cellar. “I’m sorry,” he told Abdel. “I stood up for you. Went to Tethtoril and told him everything.”

Abdel gave a weak smile. “It’s okay.”

“It’s a crime, it is.” Winthrop said. “To send you and Gorion out into the world with nothing but a tenday’s of supplies and gear.”

Abdel said nothing. The cellar was full of caskets and other stored goods. On several f the kegs lay a heavy travel pack. Next to it was a wrapped bundle and a sheathed sword. Winthrop nodded to the pack. “It’s all here. I doubled checked. And there is the gambeson and sword. I included that weather cloak. Winter’s over, but you never know.”

Abdel felt his heart leapt into his throat. “Thank you,” he managed. He didn’t bother to check the pack or the package. He trusted Winthrop. “I won’t forget...this.”

Winthrop nodded and seemed to tear up. He sniffed and looked away. He tried to lighten his voice, but Abdel heard the weight in it. “You and Gorion will be fine, lad. Gorion...you may not know it, but he’s one hell of a mage. Used to be one of those Seekers the monks send out. Rumor has it that he even studied under Elminster, the Sage of Shadowdale.”

Abdel didn’t know if any if that were true. Wizardry had never been something he had been able to wrap his mind around. His father had tried to teach him, back when Abdel was young, but he had never been able to get it. Right then, Abdel wondered if it had not been laziness. He forced a smile to his lips and picked up the sword. “Don’t worry about us,” he told the innkeep. “With this sword, I won’t let anything come to harm me or the old man.”

Winthrop laughed and Abdel heard the sadness escape the heavy-set man. “I believe you. You’re one hell of a fighter Abdel, when you get worked up. And I mean what I said about Gorion. He’s one hell of a mage.”

Abdel thanked him and the two embraced. Abdel then put the sword onto his belt, gathered the gambeson package and the traveling pack and followed the innkeeper out. When they returned to the common room, Imoen was nowhere to be seen. Winthrop grumbled, but did not seem intent on hunting her down. For Abdel’s part, he was relieved. He did not want her prying questions and he knew that his face still held the emotions from below.

Abdel returned home and began to pack. He had little to take with him. He packed some spare clothes, the extra thirty gold dragons he had accumulated serving as an underofficer, and a few odds and ends. He also checked the traveling pack that Winthrop had given him; it had a lantern, some candles, flint, a few traveling tools, some rope, rations for two to last a tenday, and various other things.

He opened the cloak that Winthrop had given him and found a newly made dark orange gambeson. It was thick, enough that it could turn aside a sword in some places and in others, keep it from pushing deep into his flesh. It provided little to no protection from arrows, but Abdel was not so concerned with that. The cloak too was new and was a dark green color.

Abdel drew the sword and examined it. Unlike the other things that Winthrop had given him, the sword looked to be old, though Abdel saw that it had been recently sharpened. Abdel scowled, thinking that perhaps the old man’s greed had gotten the better of him, but was reminded of the talk he had heard from the caravan guards the night before--the tainted iron that had caused a great deal of trouble lately. Winthrop had avoided that with an old sword that had been in circulation well before the incident.

Abdel felt tears well in his eyes. He put the old sword away and put on the gambeson. It fit well and with some adjustments to the leather straps, it was nice and tight. The cloak too, was well-fit. Abdel had no sooner finished than the door opened and in walked Gorion. Abdel was taken aback.

Gorion had always worn the robes of his office; a grey robe with gold and white tassels. He had exchanged it for old, dark colored mauve robes. He carried an old walking stick and well-worn leather boots. On his side he wore a thin brown satchel that Abdel knew contained his sell book and spell components. His old man seemed twenty years younger.

“Ready?” he asked.

Abdel nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

*********

“I see them.”

Sarevok turned his head. The black-haired beauty from Wa was his most useful of servants. She kneeled in the grass, one hand upon her staff and the other clutching a set of small prayer beads. She wore a white robe--or kimono in her language and red leggings. Her hair was put back in a braid and adorned with red and white ribbons. Among her people, she was known as a shugenja.

Tamoko’s eyes were closed, but she spoke. “They are leaving the keep.”

Sarevok stood up. His heart pounded in his chest. “What are their numbers?” he asked. He expected the old cagey Harper would leave with no less than half the keep’s twelve underofficers for protection.

Tamoko was slow to respond, as if there were a delay. “I see only the wizard and his son.”

Sarevok was taken aback for a moment. What had happened that the old codger had set out with only himself and the whelp? Sarevok had long suspected that Gorion had been a Harper and had confirmed as such less than a year ago through his own spies. Was this a trick by the wizard? Did he have invisible allies nearby? Or perhaps he intended to use magic? The worrying thought of the wizard using a spell to whisk himself and the boy across Faerun put him on edge.

“Get closer. Be sure it is them.” he told her.

The response was slow. She shook her head. “I cannot get closer. The wizard is protected. I risk being discovered.”

Sarevok cursed. He couldn’t risk that. “What about our spies?”

Tamoko slowly spoke. “I do not know. I cannot pass into the keep.”

Sarevok cursed, though he had expected that answer. The old fool had finally left his cave, but Sarevok was in the camp of his hired bandits. North. Sarevok could not risk losing the trail nor could he risk an assault upon the keep--at least not just yet. Powerful mages were within the library and he had rumors that some of Faerun's most powerful magi secretly backed the keep, as did their gods. Sarevok had expected it to take longer for his spies to flush out the old man and his son. It was too soon. If he lost this chance...

“Where are they going?” he asked at last.

It took a long time for Tamoko to speak. “They...have left the road. They are heading north, but at an eastern angle.”

Sarevok stared at her in surprise. Then he laughed. They were heading north. Right towards him. "Very clever old man, but not clever enough."

Sarevok had realized the monk's gambit. Sarevok had expected Gorion to head to Beregost first and take the road south to Amn. No doubt the old man knew that Sarevok had very little pull in Amn. Sarevok had planned for the chance that he might have missed killing his rival early and would have to face him down in Amn--impart why Sarevok needed the war with the nation to the south. Gorion had seen the danger, Sarevok guessed, and had decided to make a bold move north where it was least expected. He guessed the old monk intended to hide under his nose or escape north to Waterdeep or perhaps east to Cormyr. Both havens for the Harpers. Had not Tamoko been so diligent, the old codger might have succeeded.

Sarevok silently admired Gorion's audacity and brilliance. He had been a worthy opponent. "Break the link Tamoko," he told the priestess. "They will not live past this night."


******

The hike from the keep had taken an odd turn. Abdel had expected them to follow the road, but no sooner than they were out of sight of the keep had Gorion turned them off the road and led him to an old path that some of the keep’s scouts occasionally used. The path was nearly invisible to those who didn’t know what to look for; the small symbol of the keep etched deeply into the side of a tree.

“Where are we going?” Abdel had asked after they had left the road. His father had not allowed for any questioning, intensely focused on finding the first marker.

“The Friendly Arm Inn,” his father told him.

Abdel had not heard of it. “An inn?”

“It is a safe place,” his father told him. “Our enemy will not move against us there. The inn is the center of a small hamlet within an old keep once held by a priest of...a priest of a dark god who is no more.”

“And where do we go after there?” Abdel asked.

His father paused, “Baldur’s Gate. We can lose ourselves among the masses there. From there...I don’t know. I am sorry Abdel, but I have few means to call upon. Things are very complicated. My friends and allies cannot help us.”

Abdel thought on his father’s earlier words. “Enemy? Father, what enemy? You don’t mean...Ulraunt, do you?”

“Ulraunt?” his father echoed, shocked. “No, of course not! Bitter old fool he’s become, he is no enemy of ours Abdel. No, our enemy is the first of many who will come for us.”

“What are you talking about?” Abdel asked. He began to grow frustrated with his father’s cryptic words. “Father, who is after us? What has happened?”

His father stopped. He looked around, as if the trees themselves held spies. He started to speak, but then shook his head. “I cannot say here. It is not safe. There are too many things at play here Abel. And...and I fear what the shock will do to you.”

Abdel’s mind began to race. “Is it one of the merchants? Because arrested one of their guards?”

“Now is not the time,” his father said. “If I am to tell you, I must tell you the whole truth. And I cannot speak the names of those involved freely on these grounds. Mayhape not even within the Friendly Arm. C’mon, we have tarried too long. These paths are not entirely safe.”

They did not speak for a time after that. A strong wind had come from the sea and with it the signs of a coming storm. The blue sky had given way to dark black clouds lit by a shade of crimson from the setting sun when his father had stopped him. Abel had been lost in thought, trying to figure out who was after them and why.

“What?” Abdel asked.

“Quiet.” his father was tense. “Did you hear that?”

Abdel strained to hear anything. At first all he heard was the wind, but then he thought he heard a voice in it. It was so faint that Abdel had thought that perhaps it had been a figment of his imagination, but as he listened, the voice grew louder and stronger. A woman’s voice. It was familiar. Abdel turned toward the source of it and gasped.

The auburn hair flopped through the trees. Imoen had changed from her typical dress into a plain wool tunic and pink leggings. She had taken with her a bright green weather cloak. She jogged towards them, waving her hand and calling to them. Abdel stared at her in disbelief. What in the Nine Hells was she doing out of the keep?

Abdel’s father apparently thought the same thing. Abdel had never seen his father so furious. As soon as the girl had reached them and tried to catch her breath, he snatched her by the arm. “Stupid girl!” he snarled and shoved her away. “This isn’t a game. Get back to the keep before you catch your death out here!”

“You’re in danger!” Imoen protested. “I heard it all! You have to come back to the keep!”

“Imoen!” Abdel snapped. “Go home! You heard my father, this isn’t a game!”

“Wait!” his father said. He snatched Imoen back and stared into her eyes. Imoen squirmed, but couldn’t get free. “Tell me what happened.”

“That guy...the one who had tried to kill Abdel, he got away!” Imoen told him.

“He got away?” his father demanded. “How? He was to be guarded at all times!”

“He killed the guard!” Imoen said. “They found him dead in the man’s cell!”

His father looked horror-struck. “Dead? How?”

“He was strangled!” Imoen told them. “And he’s not the only one!”

“What?” Abdel asked. Who else?”

Imoen named two of the other four Watchers of the keep. Abdel frowned, but his father cursed. He looked around, as if ready for an assassin to leap from behind a tree. “They know the paths then,” he told them.

“What are you talking about?” Abdel asked.

Instead of answering, Gorion reached into his robe and removed an amulet of old, beaten gold. He handed it to Abdel. “Put that beneath your clothes. It will protect you. You two, follow me. We are in great danger.”

“But…” Abdel protested, but his father wouldn’t hear of it.

The rain began to fall and in the west, lightning flashed. Gorion led them at a brisk pace. Even when darkness had fallen, the old mage did not let up. He instead called upon a simple spell and produced a bright yellow light from the tip of his walking stick and continued onwards. They did not even stop to eat and were forced to eat as they walked. The rain had begun to storm, pelting them all.

The trio passed through a small clearing. They were halfway through the clearing when Abdel thought he heard something. Suddenly, his body went stiff as a board. Abdel tried to move, but his body would not respond. He tried to speak, but found that he could not. All he could do was move his eyes. At the very corner of his vision, he saw that his father had stopped. Abdel heard his father peak something, then make a curt motion with his hand. Suddenly, Abdel staggered forward, freed from his bond.

“Wh-what was that?” Imoen squeaked.

Abdel drew his sword and scanned the woods around them. His heart pounded in his chest. He was suddenly reminded of the terrible dream just a few days before.

“We appear to have walked right into a trap.” his father said dryly.

“Very perceptive old man.”

From around the woods came several figures. From behind them were two archers dressed in mail and carrying bows. To the left and right, huge nine foot green-skinned ogres, each no less than three hundred pounds stalked forward. Both carried massive clubs that looked closer to small trees. Ahead of them came two people. One was a beautiful woman in red and white, whose ethnicity Abdel had never seen before. She carried a staff and a set of prayer beads. The other was…

Abdel gasped and the sword fell from his hand. Before him stood a towering man in plate armor, covered in spikes, with a demon-shaped helmet, and bearing the skull insignia upon his chest. Pale yellow eyes glowed from within the helmet.

“Very perceptive, old man.” the deep voice of the man, much like his nightmare, boomed.

Abdel’s father spoke another spell, though nothing appeared to have happened. The woman took a step forward and pointed her staff, but the terrible man from Abdel’s nightmare held up a clawed gauntlet to stop her.

“You played your hand well old man,” he said. “You and the girl need not die. Hand over your ward and I will spare you both.”

Abdel shook from head to foot in fear. He suddenly remembered how the man had killed him in his dreams. He took a step back. “No...no!”

“Do you think I would believe the word of a cur like you?” his father snarled. “Now, begone! I don’t fear the likes of you.”

The warrior chuckled. “So be it, old man.”

He started to signal, but Abdel’s father was faster. He pointed his staff towards the pair and spoke a word of magic. A bead of red fire shot from the tip of his staff. The bead struck the man and there was a brilliant explosion. Branches were torn off trees, trunks were burnt black, and the wet grass was sent ablaze.

Within the heart of where the fireball had detonated, stood the man, unharmed. Behind him, the woman in red and white had survived with only a few burns. The killer let out a maniacal laugh. “Is that all you have, old man?”

“Abdel, run! Run! Before it’s too late!” His father yelled.

Spurred to motion, Abdel turn and ran. He grabbed Imoen’s forearm and yanked her along. They ran. The men behind them readied their bows to fire, but a great white net flew through the air and landed upon them. The men cursed as they struggled with what looked to be rope-sized spider’s web. Abdel and Imoen raced past them.

An ogre roared and thundered across the clearing towards them. Abdel froze. Imoen screamed. Abdel’s father turned, pointed his staff and spoke in the language of magic. There was a bright flash as a bolt of lightning connected the staff and the ogre for a brief second. A second flash and the ogre went down; his chest smoldering and his limbs flailing wildly.

“Run!” his father yelled at the transfixed couple.

They ran. As they ran, tears streamed down Abdel’s face.

*****

The ogre dropped dead. Gorion watched as Abdel and Imoen fled into the woods. Behind him, the men struggled to break free of the webbing. To his left and ahead of him came the others. The ogre charged alongside their leader. Gorion held forth his staff and spoke the words to his most powerful of spells. He felt the words, etched into his mind by nearly an hour of study, slip away. Power coiled around his staff. The leader and his ogre either did not see or did not care.

Gorion spoke the final syllable and released the spell. A blast of supreme cold erupted from the tip of his staff. The rain was frozen into shards of ice, the mud hardened to solid dirt, and the wave engulfed the two attackers. Frost engulfed the bare chest of the ogre. Its skin shriveled as it dried and froze. The skin cracked and split, sending up warm blood. The ogre collapsed, dead. The leader did not.

The spell had engulfed the leader, but he had charged through as if he had not even felt it. Frost had not even clung to his armor. In that instant, Gorion realized that the warrior was somehow resistant to magic. The leader crossed the distance with astounding speed and brought down his sword upon Gorion several times in several seconds. Each blow was diverted away by the spell of protection that Gorion had placed upon himself--a layered barrier, but one with limits. The warrior had destroyed four of those barriers.

To buy himself time, Gorion spoke a word to a spell he had not used in years. As he spoke, he worked to put distance between him and his attacker. He used his staff to parry two blows, activating the magic within it to sending a repulsing counter-force to the leader’s blows. The great warrior was thrown off balance. Gorion finished his spell perfectly and eight illusions of himself emerged from his person. Having used the spell many times, Gorion sidestepped to make the illusion even more confusing.

The leader lept at him with renewed fervor. In a few breaths, the warrior had destroyed three of his illusions. Gorion resisted the urge to use one of his stronger spells and instead chose a simpler, but more advantageous spell against the magic resistant attacker. He spoke the line of magic and opened his palm. Five crimson bolts flew from is hand toward the attacker.

Three of the five bolts dissolved seconds before hitting the warrior, but two more struck the warrior hard. The warrior staggered and for the first time, his face seemed to register alarm. The bolts had dented the warrior’s armor, but Gorion guessed they had done little more than bruise him. The warrior let out a roar and leapt at Gorion. Two of his swings dissolved two more illusions, but the third struck Gorion himself, but was deflected by a layer of his magical barrier.

Behind the leader came a chant of power. Gorion caught only a few words, but realized what the easterner priestess was trying to do. He turned and pointed his staff at the woman. Their chants filled the woods even as the leader bore down upon him. Another of his illusions winked out and another of his barriers were lost to the sword.

As one, their spells finished. A blue ray struck Gorion. Gorion felt her faith slam into the delicate weavings of his magic. He felt the magical barriers shudder, but hold. His illusions however, frayed at the priestess’s magic and dissolved. Gorion’s own spell came into effect; a shimmering sphere of force formed around her--and sealed her within.

“Die wizard!”

Gorion turned and intercepted the leader’s two-handed sword with his staff, speaking a word of power as he did. The staff glowed and upon impact with the sword, sent a wave of energy into the sword, forcing the warrior to stumble backwards. Gorion took the opportunity to fish out a small bolt from his belt. In a deep tone, he called to voice a spell and hurled the dart at the warrior. The dart flew as if it had left the string of a bow and around it formed a hissing green substance.

It was in vain. As the dart drew close, its speed dropped and the hissing stopped. The bolt bounced off the leader harmlessly. Having regained his footing, the warrior started forward with a charge. Desperate, Gorion intoned another magic missile spell. Bolts of crimson energy flew at the warrior. Again only two managed to penetrate the magical defenses of the warrior, each left a heavy dent in the man’s armor.

The warrior descended upon him. Gorion met the first swing and spoke his command word. The energy sent both of men stumbling a few feet backwards. Gorion threw out a hand and spat out his last magic missile spell. That time, four of the crimson bolts penetrated the warrior’s magical defenses and slammed hard into his chest, almost collapsing the left breast of his armor. The warrior gasped in both surprise and agony.

Gorion had no time to celebrate. He had wounded the warrior, but that had been all. And in doing so, he had expended the last of his magic. He gripped his staff tightly and charged. He spoke the word of command to his staff three times in rapid succession. His staff hummed with power. He was not sure how much power the staff retained, but he intended to use every drop of its magic to bring the great warrior down.

Gorion struck the warrior on the left breast. The leader cried out in pain. Gorion raised his staff and spoke the command word thrice again, drawing out more of its power. He brought it down, intent on smashing the skull of the man. The warrior quicky interposed his sword. Yellow light crackled from the sword and white light flared from Gorion’s staff. There was a flash and both men were thrown backwards.

Gorion landed hard. He gasped and rolled to his feet. The large warrior had already gotten to his feet. Gorion whispered the command word thrice and felt the staff vibrate with power. The warrior spoke something in a voice that Gorion could not catch--but the monk immediately recognized it as words to a spell.

A crimson aura of energy erupted around the warrior. He seemed to swell with strength. Gorion recognized it as a spell granted by the gods; the power of divine might. The implications made Gorion’s blood freeze. The warrior charged. Gorion steadied himself. He would wait for the warrior’s blade to be repulsed by his magical barrier; then he would strike. The blade came, the barrier repulsed the attack and Gorion drove the head of his staff into the attacker’s left breast. The blow elicited a grunt and sent the warrior back a step, but no more.

Gorion did not have time to marvel at the warrior’s newfound durability. He quickly spat out the command word and moved his staff to intercept the warrior’s sword. The two met, but instead of throwing the warrior back, the staff merely cancelled out the swing. Gorion was too astonished to realize his danger. The warrior reversed quickly pressed down, forcing the staff low and then thrust the tip of his sword at Gorion’s chest.

Gorion’s last and final barrier layer forced the warrior back three paces. The crimson aura that had engulfed the warrior winked out and he seemed to slacken. He panted. Gorion planted his feet and spoke the command word into his staff thrice. It hummed with power. He felt a new sense of hope against the warrior. He had badly wounded him.

The warrior seemed to read his thoughts and sneered. “Do not think this over, old man.”

Gorion said nothing, but beckoned the warrior. The warrior laughed and charged. He swung, Gorion ducked the blow and delivered his own to the left thigh. The armor caved and Gorion was certain he heard a bone snap. A split second later, hot pain shot through the old monk as the warrior had reversed his swing and brought the sword down upon Gorion’s right collarbone. The blade cut its way halfway through his ribcage. As the blade passed, his body grew ice-cold.

Remarkably, as if his leg had healed, the warrior managed to remain upstanding. Gorion bent over and only managed to retain his feet with his staff. Blood erupted from his lips and Gorion knew that he was dying. He tried to speak the word of power again, but his mind could not find it. Even standing began to prove too much for him. He couldn’t remember what he was even doing just then.

Something cold and strong grabbed him by the throat. He felt the weight of his body on his legs leave. Gorion blinked and stared down into the unforgiving yellow eyes of his killer. He saw the lips move and realized his killer was casting a spell. A horrible chill began in his throat where his killer had gripped him and expanded into his chest. Gorion felt his heart stop, lost all feelings in his limbs. He looked down into the face of his killer and saw Abdel there.

Death followed his grief.

 

[PsihoKekec]

You fleshed out Gorion's last fight well, keep it going.

 

[The Original Sixth]

You fleshed out Gorion's last fight well, keep it going.

Thanks! Admittedly it took three or four tries to get that scene right.

Let me know if you see anything I can improve.

 

[The Original Sixth]

Chapter Three
2 Mirtul, The Year of the Banner

Abdel and Imoen ran. The sounds of battle and the flares of magic soon became distant. They ran as far and as fast as their legs would carry them. They didn’t stop until they had burst from the trees and onto a road. Imoen fell to her hands and knees, crying. Abdel breathed hard and tried to get a hold of himself, but could not.

It was him! He thought. It was him! The man from my nightmare! He’s real and he’s come to kill me! Tears streamed down his face as he realized that his father was now dead. Abdel had no way of knowing, but somehow he knew. He knew on mere man could kill that--that thing. His father was dead and Abdel was certain the killer was on their trail. He and Imoen would soon be dead too.

Abdel looked up and down the road. He wasn’t even sure which way was which. He had difficulty keeping track in the woods and had lost all hope when he and Imoen had fled. He took a deep breath and looked for a sign or marker, but saw none. They would have to try a direction and pray that it takes them somewhere safe.

Where was safe? Abdel wondered where he could possibly go. Candlekeep was protected by walls and spells, but those men...those men inside had tried to kill him. Both of them. Thinking on it now, Abdel was certain that they had been in league with the man who had just tried to kill them. If they could get in, who knows how long it would be before the killer would catch him unaware? No, the Great Library was no longer safe for him. Or Imoen.

His father had told him that they had been going for a small hamlet called the Friendly Arm Inn and from there, Baldur’s Gate. Abdel did not think the inn could offer him any protection. In fact, he thought it best to skip the inn altogether and make a straight shot for the city. From there...Abdel had no idea.

“C’mon,” he said to the still crying Imoen. He reached down and tried to pull her up, but she pulled away from him. “Imoen, we need to go. Now.”

She cried. “They killed him, they killed him.”

Abdel swallowed hard, but tried to sound brave. “You don’t know that. Father is a powerful mage.”

Imoen turned to look at him. Her green eyes were wide. She looked into Abdel’s face and shook her head. “He’s dead. You know he’s dead. He’s dead!”

The young woman threw herself back towards the ground. Abdel turned back towards the woods. He saw no more flashes of light, apart from the storm and heard no more sounds of battle. Even as he stood, his father’s killer could be stalking them right now. He reached down and tried to pull her up, but she yanked herself back down.

Anger flashed in Abdel. He reached down and yanked her up. He twisted her around and shouted at her. “Listen! If we don’t keep moving, they are going to come here and they are going to kill us next!”

Imoen shrank in his grasp. Still angry, he gave her another good shake. “Do you understand me? They will kill us! Do you?”

She gave him a frantic nod. Abdel released her. He took several deep breaths.

“Which way do we go? She asked in a small voice.

Abdel bit back a yell. He had no idea. He looked at the road, then back at the woods. With nothing for it, he picked one direction. “This way.” he said.

“Is...is that back home?” Imoen asked.

“I don’t know.” Abdel growled.

Imoen left it at that. They walked for a time in the rain. The wide muddy road seemed to trail on forever, with sparse trees and fields on both ends. Abdel found no relief in either. He felt every tree held a hidden attacker and every field left him feeling open and exposed. They traveled for what Abdel guessed to be hours before he saw the first sign of life.

Under a large elm on the side of the road sat a roaring fire. A man seemed bent over it, rubbing is hands and tending to something he had cooking above it. Abel thought he caught a scent on the wind felt his stomach growl. He looked to Imoen. Her skin was gooseflesh and she shivered almost unbearably under her weather cloak.

“W-who is that?” she asked.

“How should I know?” Abdel snapped irritably. She shot him a hurt look. Abdel looked away. He tried to set aside his anger and fear as best he could. “Let’s see. Maybe he might share his fire.”

“But what if he’s working with that man?” Imoen asked.

Abdel stopped. He hadn’t thought of that. “Then I’ll cut him down.” he told her and reached for his sword. Only he found it was not there. He gasped and suddenly remembered that he had dropped it. He was weaponless. He looked to Imoen, who did not seem to understand.

“What?” she asked.

Abdel felt shame flush his face. “I lost it. I lost it!”

“Lost what?” Imoen asked.

“My sword! I dropped it when we ran!” his voice broke on the last word.

Imoen slumped. “Now what?”

Abdel thought. He reached for his belt and found his knife. “It’s not a weapon, but it can cut a man’s throat.” he told her.
Imoen held up a finger. “Wait!” she reached for her own belt and produced a dagger and its sheath. Abdel looked at the weapon and was tempted to take it, but he shook his head. “Keep it,” he told her. “People don’t expect women to carry weapons. If someone tries to grab you, you use that.”

Imoen nodded and replaced the dagger back on her belt.

Abdel took a deep breath. “We’ll see if this man is friendly. If not…”

Imoen looked at him. “What?”

Abdel took a breath and looked her in the eyes. “We may...we may have to put him down.”

Imoen stared at him, shocked. “Abdel! We can’t!”

Abdel grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her towards him. “You saw what happened back there, didn’t you? They will kill us the first chance they get! We have to be prepared to do the same Imoen. This isn’t Candlekeep. There is no law here. If they draw steel, we have to be ready to use ours. Understand?”

Imoen looked back at him. “Only if we have to Abdel.”

Abdel nodded. “Only if we have to.”

The pair approached the fire. The man had sat himself upon a log. He had wrapped himself up so tightly in a cloak and wide-brimmed hat that Abdel could not tell his age. As they approached, the man turned and gave them a wave. Abdel saw the flash of a long white beard.

“Hello there!” the man called. “You look wet and miserable! Why not come and warm yourself by the fire?”

Abdel breathed a bit easier. “We will!” he called back. Then to Imoen in a low voice. “Be on your guard. This may be a trap.”

Imoen gave a nervous nod.

The old man was in long red robes and on his hip was a sword with a golden handle. Having come closer, the man was clearly older, possibly in his sixties or seventies, but his hands looked as strong as a man half his age. He had a hawk nose and silver hair to match. To Abdel, he looked vaguely Cormyrian. He wore red robes with many rings, an amulet, bracers, and what Abdel knew to be spell components. The man seemed to radiate power. Abdel tensed, but tried to hide it.

“Hello goodsir.” Abdel said. “Peaceful night?”

“Nay.” the man said with a shake of his head. “Something terrible and abominable stalks the land tonight.”

Abdel and Imoen looked around wildly, expecting the armored killer to appear from behind a tree. The old mage chuckled.
“Nay, ye need not worry. It is not near and would not dare to challenge me.”

Abdel breathed easier. “What...what is this thing you speak of?” he asked.

“Nay, I cannot speak of it.” the old man said. He gestured to a nearby log. “Please, sit with me. This meal is too large for one man alone.”

Abdel saw that the wizard had been cooking a small chicken. His stomach growled. He and Imoen took a seat, though Abdel was wary of the wizard. The wizard for his own part, turned his attention to the fire and worked it with a stick. “It’s dangerous in these parts,” he told them. “What brings two young ones like yourself out so far and so late?”

“We’re uh...traveling to Beregost.” Abdel lied.

The man nodded. “I see. For myself, I am waiting for a friend. But I fear he will not show.”

“What do you mean?” Imoen asked.

“I fear he has been murdered.” the old man said.

“Murdered!” Imoen gasped.

Abdel narrowed his eyes at the old man. Slowly, he moved his hand to his knife. He was close enough, Abdel knew he could leap upon the man and slice his throat open before he could finish a spell.

“Aye,” the old wizard said. He continued to poke around in the fire. “And ye can relax boy, I have no intent upon harming ye or thy sister. Nor would thy knife--or even thy sword, had thee still held it, would pierce the wards granted by the Lady of Mysteries.”

Abdel stared at the old man. “My sword...how did you know?”

“Thee neglected to lose the sheath.” the man answered.

Abdel looked down at the sheath, then up at the old man. “Sorry,” Abdel said. He pulled his hand away from his knife. “Me...me and my, uh, sister were attacked on the road.”

“Aye, I could see it on thy faces when thee approached me and my fire.’” the wizard said. “Fear not. I cannot help thee in thy road ahead, but ye are safe here with me. Feel at ease.”

Abdel relaxed. He could not explain why, but he felt as though he could trust the old man. He tensed a bit suddenly, thinking that perhaps it might be some sort of spell of the wizard, but dismissed it. The wizard had not spoken a word of magic.

The wizard produced a small pipe and began to pack it. Imoen spoke up then. “Who are you meeting?” she asked.

The wizard looked up at her and smiled. “An old friend. Gorion was his name. He’s a monk who resides within Candlekeep.”

Abdel and Imoen looked at the man. “You’re a friend of Gorion?” Abdel asked, not believing it possible.

“Yes,” the old man sighed and he seemed much older. “He feared that the forces of darkness were closing in around him and the young man in his care.”

Abdel felt his throat constrict. “Go-Gorion is my father. Was...was my father.”

The old wizard nodded. He did not seem at all surprised. “Aye, I thought so. Thy father had told me he intended to leave Candlekeep. I had thought to wait here and see if he left, but it is as I feared; he had not taken the road.”

“You’re a wizard aren’t you?” Imoen asked. “Couldn’t you have used magic to find us?”

“Aye, I have many spells that can locate many people.” he said. “But Gorion had a gift from a mutual friend of ours; an amulet of old Netheril that warded against all scrying.”

Abdel put a hand to his gambeson. Beneath it, he could feel the amulet. The wizard nodded and smiled. “Aye, that would be it? Very good thou father gave it to you. I fear in thy haste to escape, thou hast left behind something that can be traced to you.”

“My sword?” Abdel asked. “But...I only had it for a few hours. Can a mage really track me with it?”

“Aye,” the wizard said. “Though thee had it but a short time, thy bond with it was strong.”

Abdel suddenly remembered that it had been a gift from Winthrop. He remembered how important the gesture had been. He felt his face go red with shame for having lost it. The wizard patted him on the shoulder. “Set it aside lad, thy have greater worries.”

Abdel knew he was right. With effort, he forced himself to think. “Where do we go now?” he asked.

“Candlekeep,” Imoen said. “The monks there will keep us safe! I know the Old Buzzard hates us, but he…”

“Nay,” the wizard said. He looked to Imoen. “Ulraunt cannot keep thy safe, were he willing.”

Imoen blanched. “What?”

“Ulraunt is concerned with the matter of books and knowledge.” the old wizard said. “He hast long considered thou a danger to both. Ye will not be safe there.”

“Baldur’s Gate then,” Abdel said. “Gorion had intended to take me there anyway.”

To his surprise, the old wizard shook his head. “Nay. I hath told him nay to that, but he would not listen. Ye cannot run from what approaches. Thy father hath thought he could hide you away, but it cannot be.”

“What do you mean?” Abdel asked.

The wizard thought for a moment, as if to phrase the words. “Thee cannot enter Baldur’s Gate. Thy way is closed. If ye seeks to flee, thy best head south.”

“South?” Imoen asked. “To Amn?”

“Aye,” the old wizard said, “Though thy enemy will find thee there. And more enemies await thou to the south. It shalt not begin in the south yet, but thy will not escape it.”

Abdel felt his patience thinning. “What are you talking about? What will happen in the south?”

The wizard did not tell him. Instead, he said. “Thou will die in the south.”

Imoen seemed at a loss. “Then where do we go?”

The wizard turned to Abdel. “Thee may run or fight. Either path leads thee to the south. I hast seen the signs in thy stars. Thee cannot outrun destiny.”

Abdel felt a chill run up his spine. “Then what should I do?” he asked.

The wizard lit his pipe and took a drag from it. He stared up into the rainy night sky and blew out smoke rings. “Thy father spoke of the Friendly Arm Inn?”

Abdel nodded.

“If thy goes there, thy shall meet two mutual friends of ours.” the wizard said. “Jaheira and Khalid. Both are sound of heart and mind. Trust them and they will protect ye.”

Abdel looked at the wizard. “What about you? You’re a powerful wizard, aren’t you? Can’t you help?”

The wizard took another drag from his pipe. “Aye, I am. Nay, I cannot. I play at the edges lad, I cannot interfere. Thy destiny is bigger than ye thinks.”

Abdel did not understand. The wizard turned to the chicken. “Ah, it is done! Let us eat!”

The next hour was spent preparing and eating the chicken. To Abdel, it had been spiced perfectly. The wizard had also managed a few spare wineskins for the two of them and soon the terror and fear had seemed to melt away. Even the weather seemed to be driven away by the good food; the storm cleared and the stars showed themselves. The wizard had also brought two spare bedrolls and offered to share them with the two.

Abdel laid in his sleeping bed, full and content. As he fell asleep,remembered Gorion’s death, but it was only fleeting and he dreamed of being back in Candlekeep, where it was safe and sound. His dream was mired only by an unexplained fear of something beneath the keep. Abdel spent most of his dream avoiding the dungeon of the Great Library, but eventually he found himself at the top of the stairs that led deep beneath. He did not remember what he found down there, but awoke in a cold sweat.

It was morning. Abdel sat up and looked around. Imoen slept peacefully next to him. He turned to look at the wizard on his other side, but found that he had vanished. Abel stood up, alarmed. He looked around the camp, but found no sign that the wizard had ever been there. Even the campfire and all traces of it had vanished. Had it been a dream?

No, Abdel thought. He looked back at the rolls the wizard had given them to sleep in. All of a sudden, the weight of what had happened the night before hit him and Abdel had to hold back tears. His father was dead...murdered by that terrifying man. He looked to Imoen and realized that she would be next. He thought of leaving her there. They were not far from Candlekeep. They weren’t after her.

So why are they after me? He wondered. He hadn’t done anything to them. Nor did he have anything of value. Why would anyone go to such trouble to kill an underofficer from Candlekeep? And what had the wizard spoken of the night before? That he would go south? And die? Or might die? All sorts of questions buzzed in Abdel’s head. He went to sit on the logs, but found that they had vanished too. Abdel sighed and went to sit on his sleeping roll.

Imoen awoke a short time later. “Where did he go?” Imoen asked Abdel when she saw that the wizard had gone.

Abdel shrugged.

Imoen yawned and stretched. “Well, he’s a nice old man. Whoever he was.”

Abdel nodded absently, his mind still on what they should do.

Imoen fished for some of the trail ratios from his pack. “So,” she said heavily. “What now?”

Abdel sighed. “I don’t know. It’s dangerous here...it’s dangerous in the city...dark, it’s even dangerous in the south. It’s like there’s nowhere to run.”

“I still think we should go back to Candlekeep,” Imoen told him. “Ulraunt is a bastard, but I don’t think he’d turn us away.”
Abdel was not so sure. He shook his head. “No. We either go north or south. We can’t return home.”

The words had a finality to it that could not be refuted. Immediately Abdel knew that to be the right choice. He thought about going south. The wizard had said that they would not be able to escape their enemies there. Abdel thought otherwise. The road south to Amn, then a boat north to Waterdeep. Then maybe east to Cormyr. It could work...but Abdel did not feel as though that would truly work.

“If we aren’t going home, then we should go meet that Jaheira and Khalid he told us about,” Imoen said.

“If we do...I feel as though we will get deeper into this.” Abdel said.

Imoen nodded. “Yeah, but he said if we go south, we’ll die. I believe him Abdel.”

Abdel did too. “We might die here.” he countered. “Nowhere is safe.”

Imoen looked into her lap. “I know...but...maybe we can do something about it.”

Abdel looked to the road. He was still not sure which way had been to Beregost and which way had been to Baldur’s Gate. Or if they were even on the Coast Way at all. Abdel cursed himself for not having asked which was north or south. He had a feeling that the wizard had known he was lying from the beginning, but he didn’t know if the wizard hadn’t corrected him because they were heading to Beregost or because he had not cared to correct him.

“Whose that?” Imoen asked.

Abdel turned and saw two figures coming down the road, from the same direction that they had come the night before. Abdel tensed. He looked to Imoen and saw that she was pale with worry. He looked around for a place to hide, but realized too late that they must have already been spotted by the pair coming down the road.

“They’re probably just travelers.” Imoen said.

Abdel hoped so. He took a deep breath and got to his feet. “Let’s break camp then. Either way, we can’t stay here.”
They broke camp and by the time they had finished, the two figures had approached the old tree. They were an odd pair. One was a tall man, clearly in his forties, perhaps older, dressed in long, dark olive robes. He had wild brown hair that seemed to poke in every direction. Strange symbols and runes were written on his hands, arms, and even his forehead. His dark brown eyes were wide and searching, as if constantly trying to catch something. He looked insane.

Next to him walked a halfling. He wore no shoes, but had big hairy feet. He had light brown hair almost as unkempt as the taller man he walked beside. His face and arms were covered in scars. He wore a simple, dark brown tunic and trousers. On his waist he carried a sword and several knives. As they passed, the wizard stopped and tugged at the halfling, saying something Abdel could not catch. The halfling yanked his arm away and snapped at the mage, but listened to what was said.

The halfling turned toward them, “Hey, where you two heading?”

Abdel swallowed. “We’re going to the Friendly Arm Inn. Yourself?”

The halfling grunted. “The other way. We’re going to Nashkel. Goodday.”

The halfling started off again, but the wizard tugged at him again. The halfling snarled something, but the wizard ignored him and said to the two. “I sense grave peril around the two of you! Tell me, for I am all the all-seeing Xzar!”

Abdel took a step back. “Uh...is he okay?”

The halfling sighed and rolled his eyes. “Apologies for my friend--well, friend isn’t the right word. I’d split him for a bent copper. My associate, rather. He’s not right in his own head.”

Abdel looked to Imoen. She lowered her voice. “They seem odd, but they don’t seem all that dangerous.”

Abdel nodded and turned back to the halfling. “Hey, me and my friend got lost last night. Do you know where we are?”

The halfling grunted. “Yeah, you’re on the Lion’s Way.”

Abdel blinked. “The Lion’s Way?”

The Lion’s Way was the road that connected Candlekeep to the Coast Way. Abdel could not have imagined that they had moved so far back. Trying to sound casual, he asked. “You’re heading to Candlekeep?” he asked.

“Away, actually.” the halfling snarled. “That damn Keeper of the Portal won’t let anyone in. Said it was, ‘by order of the Keeper of the Tombs’ or some crap like that.”

“Keeper of the Tomes.” Abdel corrected.

“Yeah, that.”

“Did you not have a book to offer?” Abdel asked.

“Indeed we did!” the mad mage presented an old book. “The diary of a Cormyrian Noble from three hundred years ago! It was--”

“Apparently not the problem,” the halfling cut in. “Says they have enough visitors as it is and won’t be accepting anymore. Dragon shit if you ask me.”

“I bet.” Abdel said and meant it. He suspected Ulraunt’s decision had more to do with he and Gorion leaving than it otherwise appeared to be. “Hey, do you mind if we accompany you on the road? It’s dangerous out here. Safer in numbers.”

The halfling laughed. “Dangerous? Boy, I’ve stuck more men in the back than I’ve had hot meals. But I wouldn’t mind the company. After traveling with this git for a tenday, I could use someone else to talk to.”

“Uh, thanks.” Abdel said.

He and Imoen grabbed their things and accompanied the two. The day passed quickly. The mad mage mostly rambled to himself, but the halfling was an interesting conversationalist, if perhaps the most crass that Abdel had ever met. Abdel learned that his name was Montaron. He and his “acquaintance” had been given the task of investigating the bandit attacks in the countryside.

“Who do you work for?” Abdel asked.

Montoran laughed and thumped Abdel on the leg. “Boy, if I told you that, I’d have to stick you.” he winked. “Let’s just say I work for some angry men who’d like some answers from some of the locals and leave it at that. Fair?”

Abdel thought that was fair. He was after all, on the run from enemies whose name or purpose he didn’t know. “So you and Xzar are heading south?”

Montoran sighed. “Aye. We had hoped that the monks in the library might be able to help us, but they wouldn’t let us in. Next step is south to Nashkel to do some of our own investigations. Wouldn’t mind the help. Or the company. Good coin to be made.”

Abdel’s ears perked up at that. “Coin? What sort of coin?”

“What does it matter? Coin is coin. Dragons, if you must know.”

“No, I mean how much?”

“Oh.” the halfling thought. “Fifty dragons. Twenty-five split between you and red over there. Sound fair?”

Abdel shrugged. It seemed fair enough. “Sure...but I need to go to the Friendly Arm Inn. I have some...uh, acquaintances that I have to meet.”

“No! No!” the mad mage wailed. “No delay! We must move now! Or we will be lost!”

“Shut up you prig!” the halfling snarled. He looked at Abdel. “That’s a day’s journey north you know. Puts us back by two days.”

Abdel felt torn. He didn’t wish to give up the gold...but he felt he needed to meet with Jahiera and Khalid. To his surprise, Imoen spoke. “Abdel, we need to meet with Jahiera and Khalid.”

“I know…” He looked to the halfling. “Sorry, but I have to stop at the Friendly Arm first.”

Montoran gave him a thump on the leg and grinned. “Hey, what the hell? We were going to spend a few days at the keep anyhow. I’m in. But I can’t stay there longer than a day, two at most. Me and my associate have a timetable to keep.”

Abdel smiled, relieved. “Deal.”

******

Sarevok paced impatiently in his tent. Now and again, he would look to Tamoko and the small basin of water that she stared into. In her hands she held the sword that had belonged to Gorion’s ward. She quietly chanted under her breath. It was near midday and it had been her second attempt at divination.

She looked up to Sarevok and shook her head. “I am sorry, my love. I cannot find him. It is as if...as if he keeps slipping my vision. I sense that he is not far...I see the trees and the grass...but I do not know.”

Sarevok cursed. “He is warded somehow. Damn that old codger!”

“My love, perhaps it is for the best.” Tamoko said soothingly.

“Be quiet woman.” Sarevok snaped. “The boy is my enemy. The first of many. If I am to survive, I must kill him before he kills me.”

Tamoko bowed her head. “Forgive me, my love. I have failed you.”

Sarevok dismissed her groveling with a wave of his hand. He needed to think. His "father" would call upon him soon. Sarevok had made the excuse of going for a sport hunt in the countryside--a true enough claim. Already Sarevok had been gone too long. He could not afford further delay.

Greater matters must be attended to, he thought to himself. If I am not careful, the fruit will wither on the vine. Sarevok took a deep breath and allowed his frustration to slip away. With that, he was able to think more clearly. The boy could not enter Baldur's Gate to the north. Or even cross the river by the bridge. The recent attacks forced the Flaming Fist to close the city and the to strangers. The fear of spies and agents from Amn had caused the dukes to close the bridge and the city. He must head south...I can have agents waiting there for him…

“Remain here.” he told Tamoko. “Keep scrying the boy. If he is discovered, inform me at once."

Tamoko seemed crestfallen. “I...I had hoped to return to the city with you, my love.”

Sarevok was tempted to have her return with him too...but he couldn't risk losing sight of the boy. Tamoko was one of the few he could trust--and the only one he could spare, to find the boy. That and...and the image of that golden-haired sorceress was on his mind. "Remain here Tamoko. Find the boy. We must capture him. He must not escape me."

“Yes...my love.”

 

[PsihoKekec]

Montaron seems like a such a great guy. As long as you don't leave your back exposed.

 

[The Original Sixth]

Hey guys, my roommate is very sick and as such, the update may be delayed till Wed. In such a case, the update will include two chapters instead of one.

 

[PsihoKekec]

Take your time.

 

[Hlaalu Agent]

Hey guys, my roommate is very sick and as such, the update may be delayed till Wed. In such a case, the update will include two chapters instead of one.

I agree, that you should take your time. Real life concerns come first.

 

[The Original Sixth]

Chapter Four
3 Mirtul, The Year of the Banner

It was early morning when they reached the Friendly Arm Inn. It was, as Abdel had been told; a small hamlet within and without a walled keep. The keep itself was a simple square keep with four floors. There was no moat, though Abdel saw signs that there had once been; a slight dip in the ground around the keep and a drawbridge that crossed it.

The guards at the gatehouse gave them some questions and noted Abdel’s missing sword. Abdel excused it by saying that the sword had broken. He had thought it a lame excuse, but to his surprise, the guard nodded willingly and thumped him on the shoulder and let them all pass, though he eyed Xzar and Montaron with suspicion.

The Friendly Arm Inn had a large common room. The interior of the keep had been hollowed out; interior walls had been removed or partially so to allow for a larger common room, with small side alcoves for patrons to sit in. The counter was a unique affair; it had a high area for humans to sit and then sloped down to the height of a halfling or gnome. Behind the bar moved a gnome with a pepper and salt mustache with a dirty apron.

Xzar tugged on Montaron’s arm and bent to whisper something into his ear. The halfling listened and then nodded. The two peeled away. “Me and my associate have some business to discuss. We’ll see you later.”

“Hello friends, hello!” the gnome said to them. “Welcome to the Friendly Arm Inn! Rooms? Food? Or just drink?”

Abdel felt his stomach twist. He had never ordered a room before. “Uh...how much for a room?”

“Five copper nibs a night for a small room and bed. Small chest for clothes. Five silver shards will get you a feather bed, two chests, a desk with a chair, and a harth for warmth.” he gnome said, almost mechanically. He looked to Imoen and thought, then said. “Two beds are two nibs for the basic room and two shards for the luxury rooms.”

Abdel took a moment to absorb the information and recalled the coin that he had taken with him from Candlekeep. Twenty-five golden dragons, twelve silver nibs, and nine copper nibs. Abdel decided that it was better to have cheap rooms for many nights than large, fancy ones for a few.

“A basic two bedroom.” he told the gnome and counted out the copper.

“Excellent goodsir, excellent!” the gnome said and took the coin and sneaked it away somewhere. “And what will you be eating? Or is it just a drink?”

Abdel felt his heart linger for a good pint of ale. A gallon, really. His coin purse was not empty, but it was not fat. With a sigh, he said. “A galleon of ale, two pint mugs...two bowls of soup...and a loaf of bread.”

“Aye! The gnome said. “Five shards.”

Abel flinched at the price.

“Sorry goodsir, but the price of banditry carries over.” the gnome said apologetically.

Abdel nodded and handed over the silver. The gnome smiled. “We’ll see to it right away goodsir. Have a table while you and your friend wait.”

“Oh, one more thing…” Abdel said. He leaned in, “I’m looking for some friends of mine.”

“Sure thing friend, what do they look like?” the gnome asked.

Abdel flushed. He hadn’t the faintest idea. “Uh...they’re names are Jaheira and Khalid”

The gnome paused for only a moment. “Can’t say I know them. If I meet them, I’ll tell them you passed through.”

Abdel thanked the gnome and went to sit down with Imoen at a table in the middle of the inn. Shortly afterwards, the food arrived. Abdel took the galleon of ale that the barmaid had set down and poured out a pint for himself. He offered Imoen some and she gladly accepted.

“I’ll take a pint,” she said happily. She broke the bread and offered Abdel the larger half. “You’re bigger, you need to eat more.”

Abdel thanked her and went to eating his food. They had half finished their meal when Abdel noticed two people approach their table. The woman lead the way with long, confident steps. She wore a fine dark brown buff coat that trailed to her ankles and over it a dull gray cloak that barely registered to the eye, long brown leggings, and a scimitar at her hilt. She had light brown skin and hair, with bright brown eyes. She had an oval face and was on the short side; she was even shorter than Imoen. Abdel realized she must have been a half-elf.

Behind her walked a man of similar stature and skin color, but with darker hair and eyes. He openly wore a jack of plates and his legs and arms were covered in splinted armor. He wore a dark green cloak and carried a silver hilted scimitar at his waist, with several jewels set into it. Next to it was a wineskin. His strides were short and nervous.

“I am Jaheira,” the dark skinned woman said to them. Her accent was feminine, but deep and seemed unaccustomed to speaking the Chondathan tongue. She appraised Abdel and Imoen with a critical eye, but Abdel more so. “I was told to be wary, two stranger were asking for me...but I think you are the son of Gorion, am I wrong?”

Abdel nodded, then shook his head. “Uh, yes. I am Gorion’s son.”

“Then where is he?” the woman demanded. “His letter said that he would be with you. And yet I do not see him here.”

Abdel paused. It took him effort to find is voice. “He’s dead.”

The woman stared at Abdel in disbelief. “Gorion? Dead? No...it can’t be.”

Abdel took a deep breath. He forced down the pain. “It is.”

The woman’s voice grew stern with anger. “When? How did this happen?”

Abdel explained what had happened in the woods north of the Lion’s Way. When he had finished, the woman seemed to rock on her feet. She seemed to fight back tears. The man behind her took her hand and said something nervously in a language that Abdel did not recognize. Kaheira squeezed his hand back, but shook her head and said something back.

“Do you know who this man who murdered Gorion was?” she asked.

Abdel hesitated, but shook his head. He did not think dreams counted. And if it did, he would not share the nightmare with anyone. “No, I didn’t see his face.”

The woman swore an oath in yet another language that Abdel did not know. She switched back to Chondathan. “Your father will not go unavenged, child...but that cannot be helped right now.”

“Avenged?” Abdel echoed in amazement. The sudden image of his nightmare came back to him. Abdel was certain that if he had fought the man, he would have died. “How? I saw him! He was like a demon from hell!”

Jaheira looked at him like he was something she had found on the bottom of her boot. “Do you not plan on avenging the man who raised you?”

“I do!” Abdel protested. Abdel was surprised by the emotion in his own voice. He did want to avenge Gorion. He did want to kill the bastard. He took a deep breath and looked elsewhere. He could not articulate how he felt. He wasn’t sure what he felt.

Jaheira put an arm on his shoulder. He was surprised by the gentleness of the touch and her voice. “I understand. You were afraid.”

Abdel opened his mouth to deny it, but found no voice. He said nothing. Jaheira patted him on the shoulder. “I understand. You are still very young and I do not think you have seen a day of battle in your life. If you wish it, I can teach you to fight. But I cannot teach you bravery. That you must find within yourself.”

“We all g-gg-get s-sscared sometimes.” Khalid said, speaking for the first time in their tongue. His accent was even more noticeable. “I have the courage of a goblin, but Jaheira and I have done more good than brave men in shining armor.”

Abdel was not sure he believed that, but it made him feel better. Jaheira took a seat and motioned for Khalid to do the same. “If you wish to fight, then you should come with us. We cannot avenge Gorion now. Our errand is too great to set aside for anyone, even Gorion.”

“Errand? What sort?” Abdel asked.

Khalid shot Jaheira an alarmed look, but she ignored him. “I cannot tell you all the details, but I can say this; we are investigating the causes behind the Iron Crises.”

“You too?” Imoen asked.

Jaheira’s head snapped to look at Imoen. “What do you mean child?”

Imoen told her about Xzar and Montaron. Jaheira did not turn her head, but Abdel noticed her eyes dart to a few spots in the common room. When Imoen and Abdel had finished, she seemed thoughtful. “Interesting...and you do not know who their employer is?”

They shook their heads. Khalid mentioned something to Jaheira in their language, but she silenced him with few words of her own. “Then it seems that we all have reasons to journey south.” she told them. She looked to Abdel and Imoen. “Will you two join us? It will be safer on the move.”

“We had hoped to go to Baldur’s Gate or Waterdeep.” Imoen said.

Jaheira shook her head. “You could not, even if it were advisable. The tensions between Amn and Baldur’s Gate have grown worse in the past tenday than the past month. The Flaming Fist have closed the bridge over the river and the city is under martial law.”

Abdel was taken aback. “Is it really that bad?”

“It is.” Jaheira told him. “Baldur’s Gate had a substantial stockpile of weapons and armor, if there were ever a war, but this past tenday, it was discovered that these too had been affected by the strange iron disease.”

“It must have been sabotage.” Abdel said. “Those weapons would have been obtained long before the iron shortages began.”

“That is correct,” Jaheira said. “And with banditry on the rise across the region, the city can’t secure the replacements it needs--nor is there any way to know if they too won’t be contaminated.”

“So is Amn behind it all then?” Imoen asked.

Jaheira seemed troubled by that. “It is possible,” she admitted. “Amn and Baldur’s Gate have competing colonial interests...but direct warfare had never seemed to be in the interest of either states. The mountain range between them has always kept them apart.”

Abdel suddenly realized something. “But Nashkal is part of Amn, isn’t it? That means, if Amn and Baldur’s Gate do to go to war, Amn already hold the pass through the mountains.”

“C-correct,” Khalid said. “And th-there are few p-ppp-places to hold the Amnians back between here a-and the r-rriver.”

“Which means,” Jaheira said, “The Dukes fear agents within the city.”

“A-and it s-ss-seems that the D-dd-dukes may declare war f-first.” Khalid told them. “B-better to t-take Nashkal and f-fight at the p-pp-pass then at t-the city.”

“So it must be Amn then,” Imoen concluded.

“Of that we cannot be sure,” Jaheira said. “But I do not believe it to be true. I do not believe that they would taint their own mine and sabotage their own business to wage war against Baldur’s Gate. It would mean fighting the entire Lord’s Alliance. Even if they were to take the city, they would face no barriers between them and Waterdeep and Neverwinter.”

“Then who is behind it?” Abdel asked.

“That is what I intend to find out,” Jaheira said.

Imoen gave Abdel a questioning look. Abdel swallowed and thought, “The others are going south too. We had planned to go with them. Shouldn’t we all go together?”

“W-well, actually w-we d-d-don’t…” Khalid began.

Jaheira cut him off. “There is safety in numbers, as I said. Yes, we will travel with these companions of yours. But if they ask, you are to tell them that we are investigating on behalf of Baldur’s Gate.”

Abdel did not understand, but he agreed.

“Very well then...take us to meet these two.”

Abdel searched the common room and found the two men in the corner. “They’re this way,” he said and got up to lead them. Jaheira followed, but told Khalid to keep Imoen company. Montaron and Xzar had seemed to be watching them. The wizard tugged at the halfling, who pushed him away and seemed to tense.

“Montaron, Xzar.” Abdel said and introduced Jaheira, “She and her companion--”

“Husband.” Jaheira corrected.

Abdel looked at her, surprised. She raised a brow, as if to challenge her. Abdel recovered quickly and continued, “Uh, husband...they’re traveling to Nashkel too. They’ve been hired by the city to do some investigations into the Iron Crises. I told her about your investigation and she thought that they might accompany us south.”

Montaron had developed a sneer throughout. “I don’t think we be needing the help of a pointy-eared mongrel.” he said. “Our employer doesn’t want interference by some underpaid novice looking to get their boots wet.”

Jaheira’s hand went to the hilt of her scimitar. “I am no novice to fighting, halfling. And if you think I do not know where that hand is going, then you are as stupid as you are crude.”

At that, the halfling laughed. He gave Jaheira a wicked grin, then turned to Montaron. “And what do you think?”

The wizard giggled. “Her voice is ambrosia.”

Jaheira stared at the mage. “He’s mad!”

Montaron turned back to them. “That he is. We intend to leave first thing in the morning. That work with you long ears?”

Jaheira’s voice was tight. “It is.”

The two returned to their table. “You must be careful of those two.” she said in a low voice. “The mage is mad and the halfling will cut your throat for a bent copper.”

Abdel found he couldn’t entirely disagree.

 

[The Original Sixth]

Chapter Five
4 Mirtul, The Year of the Banner


The small party had left the Friendly Arm Inn early the next morning. Abel had not slept well; he had another dream. One in which he and Imoen ran through a deep haunted woods as his father’s murderer hunted them. At Jaheira’s insistence, Abdel had gone to one of the local shops and purchased himself an old warhammer.

“It is no sword, but it’s better than nothing.” she had told Abdel.

Abdel had been bitter about having to buy a warhammer for five dragons, but the arming sword to replace his would have cost him his entire twenty-five dragons. Abdel certainly could not afford that. Abdel prayed to Tempus that the hammer had not been tainted as too many weapons had been.

The morning had been a bright, promising blue, but the sky had turned sour as they approached noon. Grey clouds passed overhead and by mid evening it had begun to rain. Xzar had begun to laugh and whistle to terrible tune, even as Montaron swore he would cut him open if he did not stop. Abdel wondered if perhaps the halfling’s foul mood might be attributed to the close proximity of the mage. As they walked, Abdel noticed that Jaheira had not pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, even as Khalid and the others had.

“You okay?” he asked her, indicating her hood.

She gave a small smile. “I am fine. The rain doesn’t bother me.”

“J-Jaheira d-doesn’t like to be c-caught off-guard.” Khalid explained.

Abdel accepted that. Abdel had thought that they would take camp soon after the sun had set but instead Jaheira had insisted that they go on for a few hours more. Abdel had hoped that Montaron would agree with him, but instead he had agreed to keep going; as it turned out, he and the half-elves could see just fine in the dark. In fact, the three seemed more comfortable with it than they were in the daylight.

“At least allow me to use a lantern,” Abdel had protested, but Jaheira had told him that it would be dangerous and would reduce their vision in the darkness.

“It is bright enough for you to walk alongside us without getting lost.” Jaheira had told him.

Abdel guessed it must have been close to midnight before Jaheira had finally agreed that they had gone on long enough. By then, even Montaron had grown tired and eager for camp and had been grumbling to himself and others loudly. Abdel was relieved until Jaheira had told them they would camp in a stand of nearby trees a bowshot from the road, but to his relief, Xzar had performed a minor spell that had caused his dagger to take on a bright white glow.

“You idiot!” Montaron snarled. “Put that out before someone sees it!”

Xzar refused, “There are none to see! The stars! The stars! They tell me so!”

Montaron grumbled. “I’ll go on ahead.” he told them.

Jaheira and Khalid exchanged a meaningful look, but did not protest. The halfling vanished into the darkness ahead of them. The five of them followed. Montaron met them back just past halfway.

“Found us a nice little spot,” he told them. “Within those trees there. A fire shouldn’t be too noticeable if we keep it low enough.”

“A fire would be too dangerous.” Jaheira said.

“Bah!” the halfling said. “It will be safe enough. Sensible precautions is one thing, paranoia is another. C’mon.”

In the end, Montaron had won out. Abdel, Imoen, and Xzar had agreed to a fire. Jaheira angrily kept to herself the whole night. Khalid, either out of agreement or loyalty, did not join them by the fire. The four of them ate and wared themselves by the fire. An hour after the fire had been going, Khalid returned and told them that they should set a watch. He told them that he and Jaheira would take first two. To rotate every two hours. He suggested that Abel and Imoen go afterwards.

Montaron had laughed at the half-elf. “What’s wrong long ears, afraid I’ll slit your throat while you sleep?”

Khalid had stuttered a retort so badly, it had come out incomprehensible. The halfling laughed in his face and went to his spot. “Have it your way! More sleep for me!”

Xza cackled evilly. He pointed to the sky, where some stars poked through the clouds. “A good night for sleeping! The stars! The stars cannot see us!”

They took their shifts sleeping. The six hours didn’t bother Abdel, who was used to the schedule as an underofficer in Candlekeep, but Imoen was snappish early the next morning. The poor weather had continued and her mood did not improve for most of the morning. Xzar too had been in a poor mood, complaining that he had not had the time to study his spells with the constant rain. He had sworn an oath to bring the clouds low for their insolence and cackled to himself before seeming to forget the whole thing.

Abdel’s day did not approve when they had stopped for a short lunch. Jaheira had seemingly not forgiven Montaron for pushing the matter of the campfire the night before and had spent the lunch launching probing questions at the halfling and mage. Xzar threatened Jaheira in his mad way and Montaron made veiled threats about people who didn’t know where to keep their noses.

The tension in the group had grown into the early evening. Abdel dreaded what the night would bring. According to Jaheira, they might not reach Beregost until the morning. The land around the road had changed to mostly fallow grasslands with a few smattering of trees. Abdel had allowed himself to relax, certain that being so close to Beregost, they were clear of any bandits.

He had been very wrong.

It had been late evening when it happened; a half dozen orange-skinned men with pig-noses and long ears in ring mail had leapt up from the grass no more than a quarter bowshot from the part on their right. Another quarter bowshot behind them were a half dozen bowmen.

“Hobgoblins!” Jaheira had shouted even as the arrows fell around them.

Abdel felt his heart leap into his throat. He reached for his sword, but remembered that it had been lost. Instead he found his warhammer. Beside him, Khalid had drawn his scimitar and shield and had hidden behind it, catching two arrows on it and one on his armor. His voice quaked.

“H-here they c-cc-come!”

Montaron was the first to react. From somewhere he had produced a sling and with shocking speed, he set two stones flying into the air at one of the onrushing hobgoblins and caught him upon his head. The hob had worn a simple pot helmet, so the blow didn’t kill him, but stunned him. The second broke his nose.

Jaheira was the next. She held out a small piece of mistletoe before her and chanted in a high voice, in a language that he had never heard before. A flash of lightning came from above A bolt as thick as a man’s thigh struck an oncoming hobgoblin. The hobgoblin and his two nearby comrades were instantly scorched black.

The sudden death of three of their comrades by a freak lightning bolt caused the others to halt. Arrows descended again. Abdel saw one hit Jaheira and penetrate her buff coat. She let out a cry of pain and stumbled. Her chanting ended and she looked around, stunned. Two arrows had fallen upon Xzar, who was consumed with his own chanting, but they bounced off harmlessly seconds before impacting.

“J-Jaheira!” Khalid gasped.

Bolstered by the support of arrows, the hobgoblins renewed their attack. Two charged for Jaheira, a third for Montaron and Xzar.

Realizing that Jaheira was some kind of priestess or mage--a powerful one, Abdel realized he had to buy her time to cast another spell. “Khalid! With me!” he shouted.

Abdel thought he heard the half-elf respond, but he could not make out what. He charged forward and met the first hobgoblin. The hobgoblin snarled and swung at him with a rusty sword. Abdel sidestepped and slammed the but of his hammer’s handle into the sword. The hobgoblin howled as his sword rang out of his hands.

Having braced for it, Abdel managed to hold onto his own hammer and rushed in for the kill, but he misjudged the distance and missed the hob by inches. The hob snarled and drew out a long dagger. Abdel took a deep breath, but knew that Khalid would soon be there. He made a reckless swipe for the creature.

The hobgoblin ducked and stabbed Abdel so quickly that Abdel hadn’t realized it had happened until the hob had pulled back with his blood on the blade. Abdel gasped and staggered backwards. There was pain in his ribs. The gambeson and the ribcage had saved him, but the hob came at him again, this time lower.

Abdel narrowly avoided a second shanking. “Khalid!” he called weakly, but knew then that the half-elf had not followed him. The second hobgoblin arrived and moved slowly around the two. Abdel knew that it was moving behind him both to flank him and cut off any escape. Sweat covered Abdel’s body. He was a dead man.

A hand flew through the air then, whizzing between Abdel and the first hob. Both turned to watch the hand latch itself to the throat of the second hobgoblin. The second hobgoblin dropped its sword and tried to pry the hand off. The hand began to glow a deep red. The nails dug into the hob’s throat. The hobgoblin croaked and the glow spread to its entire body. Its flesh grew pale and its eyes rolled up into its skull. The glow winked out and the hand released itself.

The hobgoblin dropped dead.

Abdel and the hob turned to look at each other--then suddenly remembered that they were enemies. The hobgoblin leapt for Abdel, who backed away quickly as he could, but tripped over something and fell upon his back. The hob stood over him, a wild look upon its face. It prepared to lunge, but just then, it grabbed at its pot helmet, seemingly irritated.

Before his eyes, the pot helmet began to glow a bright red. The hobgoblin screamed and tossed away its dagger to grab at the helmet. It managed to get the helmet off, but the helmet had scorched its slick black hair and left blisters on its skin. Seeing his chance, Abdel leapt to his feet and swung his hammer at the creature’s unguarded skull.

Abdel heard--no, felt the skull crack and watched as the hobgoblin went flying to the ground, dead. Abdel stared down at the dead goblin in a mixture of horror and...gratification? Abdel stared at the dead thing until a bright flash of light caught his attention. He looked up in time to see a bright fireball blossom in the field where the archers had been. The heat flared and Abdel felt the sweat on his skin vanish.

Then a strong breeze hit Abdel and he nearly lost his footing. Where the hobgoblins had been, only the smoldering corpses, burning grass, and black smoke remained. Abdel looked around to see if any of the hobgoblins had survived. None had. Montaron stood over the corpse of a bloody hobgoblin--the last accounted for.

“Abdel, are you alright?”

Abdel realized it was Jaheira. He turned and saw her walking toward him. A flush-faced Khalid in tow. She looked furious. Khalid stammered something to Jaheira in their language, but she cut him off with something harsh and he fell silent.

“I’m fine,” Abdel said, his breath heavy. He looked at the arrow in Jaheira’s shoulder. “That arrow…”

Jaheira waved the hand of her other arm, “It is nothing,” she told him. She reached over and screwed up her face, then worked the arrow out. Abdel began to protest, but the arrow as out. The wound bled. Jaheira examined the arrow in a mixture of interest and disgust, then tossed it away. She reached for the mistletoe that Abdel had seen her use earlier and spoke a soft chant. A soft glow covered her hand. She pressed it against the wound and the glow grew to cover the wound, then vanished entirely.

Jaheira sighed and relaxed. She moved her other arm freely. “See? No harm done.”

Abdel stared at Jaheira in amazement. “You...you’re a priestess.”

Jaheira gave him a smile. “Close. A druid.”

Abdel nodded. He had heard of such people. Ancient worshipers of nature who called upon the spirits of the land as a priest would call upon their god. “I thought you were a warrior,” he admitted.

Jaheira’s smile broadened. “I am both.”

Khalid coughed and Abdel realized he was there for the first time. He stepped closer to Jaheira, “She is amazing,” he said, with deliberate care to keep the stutter out of his voice. “T-that’s why I married her.”

Abdel took the point and gave a nod. “You’re a lucky man.” He suddenly remembered, “Imoen? Where is she?”

“Over here!”

Abdel turned and saw Imoen standing over the body of the hobgoblin that the flying hand had killed. She scooped up his sword. “I’ll take this, I think.”

Abdel remembered the sword his hobgoblin had been carrying. He picked it up and examined it. The sword was of poor quality and looked to have chipped in several places. Abdel was sure that the blade was not entirely sound. Still, he had few options. He found the sheath for it and secured it at his belt.

Later, Abdel had learned that the spell had been a product of Xzar. He watched the mad mage, laughing, toss the old hand away and cut himself a new one from the dead hobgoblin he had killed with it. The others only watched in disgust.

“I don’t know why he does it,” Montaron admitted. “Seen him use a hand more than once before, but everytime he kills a whoreson, he takes his hand.”

Abdel reflexively rubbed the wrists of his own hand.

The party left the dead bodies of the hobgoblins where they had been and traveled several more hours to an outcropping of trees. That night, Montaron had agreed to only a small fire and only for food and a little warmth. Abdel thought that perhaps the attack had unnerved him a bit. After Abdel’s shift, was Imoen’s. Abdel had been sleeping well until he awoke to a rough shake and Imoen’s hiss in his ear.

“Wake up! Wake up!”

Abdel started to roll over, but something in her voice made him wake up. He turned. “What?” he asked.

Before Imoen could answer, Abdel heard the sound of branches snapping. He pushed Imoen aside and leapt to his feet. Out of the trees came a nine or ten foot tall ogre with dark brown skin with massive ears and a long nose. In one hand it carried a massive club.

“Ogre!” Abdel bellowed.

Abdel leapt for his sword and warhammer. The ogre let out a roar and stalked toward him. It had taken only three steps when a stone struck it square in the head. The ogre staggered. Blood ran down its face. It roared and turned on Montaron. The halfling sent another stone the ogre’s way, but merely clipped it on the shoulder. The ogre turned and headed for the halfling. It swung its massive club at the halfling with astonishing speed.

Montaron leapt out of the way, but the club clipped the halfling as it passed and Abdel heard bones crack. The halfing let out a horrible cry and went rolling sideways. The ogre roared and raised its club to finish the job when white threads flew into the air and descended upon the ogre in a thick net. More and more strands descended, covering the ogre, the neary ground, and even the trees in the web. Even the halfling had been caught in it.

The ogre let out a roar of rage and tugged and pulled. Abdel heard the strands snap and tear, but the ogre’s progress was slow. It was under five feet of webs; it would take some time for it to reach Montaron.

“Montaron!” Xzar boomed, “I have saved you!”

Montron screamed back at the wizard, “Saved me? You’ve killed me you whoreson! I’m stuck and I can’t move!”

Within the web, Abdel saw that wasn’t entirely true; but his progress was less than half of that of the ogre’s. He wouldn’t escape before the ogre caught him.

An arrow flew overhead. The arrow caught the ogre in the side. It grunted and looked down at the arrow in its side. Another arrow struck, but the arrows seemed to do little to the massive creature. It continued its advance towards Montaron.

“Very well, very well!” Xzar boomed. He giggled and then spoke the counterspell.

The webs dissolved into smoke. The ogre staggered, off-balanced. It looked around, confused. Montaron screamed. “That’s not better you bastard!”

Abdel rushed forward, his new arming sword drawn. He swung at the ogre’s rear side. The sword struck, but between the thick furs the ogre wore as coat and its raw-hide like skin, the sword merely glanced off. The ogre snarled and gave Abdel a hard kick. The blow caught Abdel in his midsection.

Abdel’s world exploded into pain. He was thrown clean into the air, hit the ground, bounced twice, and rolled. When he stopped, the world spun around him. He tried to take in brath, but found that he couldn’t. He tried again and couldn’t. The third time, he managed to take in air. The second a bit more. On the sixth try he took in a full breath.

Abdel rolled to his side and saw the ogre tower over the defenseless halfling. It had pinned him with one of its feet. Montaron did not go down without a fight. He had drawn a throwing knife and hurled it at the ogre. It stuck in its throat, but did not penetrate far. The ogre growled and raised its club.

Imoen was there. She had drawn her own sword. She swung at the back of the ogre’s left shin. She slashed through the back of its heel, cutting through the thick skin. The sword flew from her hands, leaving the girl unarmed, but the ogre had lost its balance. It howled as it toppled over and hit the ground with a earth-shattering boom. The ogre tried to get up, but Jaheira was atop it then. She had discarded her staff and had drawn her scimitar. She drove her scimitar into the ogre’s throat, then twisting it and using her weight, she drew the scimitar across its throat, holding onto the small handle with both hands.

The ogre gushed blood. It started to rise, but Khalid had arrived. His bladework was even faster and Abdel had to admire the skill and speed. His first stroke severed the tendons in the ogre’s wrist and it fell back to the ground, helpless. The second blow slashed open its stomach and the third pushed through its chest and into its heart. The ogre was dead.

“That was reckless!” Jaheira said to Abdel. She had cleaned her scimitar and sheathed it. She bent over him to examine the wounds. “A few broken ribs,” she laid a gentle hand on Abdel’s side. Fire shot through it. She whispered a prayer in her language. A gentle yellow glow encompassed her hand, then spread to Abdel.

Abdel felt as though he were in a cold spring. The sensation caused him to gasp and pain shot through him. He groaned and almost pulled him away, but Jaheira had forced him still with her other hand. The pain eased, then subsided. The sensation passed and Abdel found he could breathe easily again. He felt the spot where the ogre had broken his ribs and winced. The bones had been healed, but he still felt a large--and painful bruise.

“It should heal within a few days,” she told him. She got to her feet. “And maybe it will be a lesson to you about recklessness.”

Abdel started to protest, but the druid had already left his side and gone to examine Montaron. The halfling had gotten it much worse. His right shoulder, arm, and ribcage had been broken by the ogre’s club. The ogre had also broken his left leg when it had pinned him with its foot. Jaheira was critical of the wound.

“It is bad,” she told the halfling.

Montaron sneered. “And what will you do druid? Slit my throat like you would a wounded ass?”

Jaheira returned his sneer. “I do not doubt you deserve anything less halfling.”

Montaron started to say something, but Jaheira slapped a hand on his broken ribs and his retort turned into a scream. Jaheira spoke a prayer and a yellow glow encompassed the halfling. When the glow faded, Montaron didn’t seem much for the better. Jaheira repeated her prayer and the spell took effect again.

Montaron’s face relaxed a bit, but when he tried to move, the pain returned. “Your arm and leg are still broken,” she explained to him. She sighed and turned to the others, “We cannot travel today. I had not asked the spirits for more healing magic yet. We will have to remain here.”

“Here!” Imoen protested. She looked at the dead ogre. “But...but that thing!”

“We will have to drag its body away from the camp and burn it.” Jaheira said.

Imoen wrinkled her nose. “Burn it?”

“If we do not, it may attract something worse. Worgs are few in this land, but they are here.” she nodded to Khalid. “You and Imoen dispose of the ogre. Abdel and Montaron need to rest. Xzar…”

“Xzar does not take orders from anyone!” the wizard snarled. “Least of all you!”

Jaheira glared at the wizard, but he did not back down. Instead, he laughed and walked off to sit near the spot where they had set their campfire and started to fumble with his things. Jaheira stared at him all the while and Abdel thought she might say or do something, but she seemed to think better of it.

In the end, Jaheira, Khalid, and Imoen had managed to drag the ogre off. Meanwhile, Abdel did what he could to make Montaron comfortable and got a fire going for food. Imoen returned a short time later, her face pale. She sat down next to Abdel.

Montaron chuckled. “What is it girl? The smell of a corpse too much for you?”

“It was disgusting!” Imoen complained. She shivered. “And then...then they...Abdel, they’re cutting it up!”

Abel looked at her. “What?”

“They couldn’t find a proper place to burn it, so they’re cutting it up!” Imoen wailed.

Abdel stared at Imoen. “What?”

Montaron chuckled. “Not as pretty as they seem, are they?”

Abdel looked at the halfling. “What do you mean by that?”

The halfling gave him a sly wink. “C’mon now. Do you think that long-eared bitch would hesitate to cut me up and burn me in a hole?”

“She saved your life!” Abdel yelled, angry with the halfling.

The halfling laughed. “Aye, because she needed me. If she didn’t, she would have left me to die.”

Abdel flushed. “That’s a lie!”

“Is it?” the halfling grinned. “She doesn’t work for the city, does she?”

Abdel was too startled to deny it in time.

“So who does she work for?” Montaron asked.

“Who do you work for?” Imoen countered. “Because you haven’t told us anything either!”

Montaron did not deny it. “And do you trust me?”

“No.” Imoen said.

“But you trust her?” Montaron asked.

Abdel and Imoen struggled to answer. The truth was, Abdel did implicitly trust Jaheira. Somehow, he could not see her betraying him. He thought of the ogre that she and Khalid were butchering. He looked to Imoen. She looked less sure.

“You don’t…!” Abdel started.

“You didn’t see them hacking that thing up!” Imoen protested.

“You know why she’s doing it!” Abdel said. “To keep the worgs from coming for it!”

“Abdel, maybe she only let him live,” she pointed to Montaron, “because we were here. Did you see the look in her eyes? She wanted him dead. And his wounds didn’t heal like yours did. She fixed your ribs in one go. It took her two tries to heal Montaron.”

“His ris had been smashed to pieces with a club!” Abdel protested, though he felt less sure of himself. Several of his ribs had been badly smashed. He hadn’t seen Montaron’s, but the halfling had taken an almost direct blow from the ogre’s club. Not just a kick.

“Enough! Enough!”

Abdel and Imoen turned to Xzar, who had stood up. He had been studying his spellbook with such intensity that they had forgotten that he was there. “I cannot think! I cannot think! Montaron! Make them shut up or I will cut their tongues out!”

Abdel and Imoen were taken aback. Montaron cursed and spat at the wizard, “Sit down and mind yourself mage!”

The wizard huffed, but went back to his spellbook.

Abdel went to staring into the fire and poking it occasionally with a stick. Imoen went to examining her new sword. After a while she said, “I think this is bent.”

Abdel ignored her, so she cleared her throat and said more loudly. “HEY ABDEL, THIS IS BENT.”

Abdel cursed under his breath, but turned to look at the sword. He was surprised to see that she was right. His anger forgotten, he took the sword and examined it. “What did you do to it?” he demanded.

“Nothing!” Imoen protested.

Abdel sighed and tried to bend it back to true, but after the first try, he realized that it had only gotten worse.

“Hey! It’s already bent, don’t break it!” Imoen protested.

“It’s not me!” Abdel said. “It’s this damn sword. Something is wrong with it.”

Imoen pouted. “Now what do I do? My sword is broken!”

“Then use mine!” Abdel snapped. He dropped his sword, sheath and all, at her feet. “And try not to break it.”

“What?” Imoen blushed. “No, Abdel! I’m sorry, I’m just angry at the sword! I know you didn’t do anything! You need that more than I do! I don’t even know how to use it!”

Abdel sighed. He dearly wished to take the sword back, but he had already said it and he didn’t want to look indecisive. Especially in front of Montaron. “No, you need it. Besides, I still have that warhammer.”

Imoen looked unsure, “But you’ve never really used that before, right?”

Abdel gave a tilt of his head to acknowledge her point. “No...but I can learn. I’ll have plenty of time today.”

Abdel picked up the warhammer. It was a one-handed weapon with a wooden shaft and a metal head. The hammer-head was flat, save for a small pyramid in its center. The back of the head had a spike. It was well balanced, but it played very differently than the swords he was used to. All the weight was in the head and it did not have the speed and agility that he was used to in a sword.

“Take the sword Imoen,” Abdel said, more gently. He got up from the fire. “I’m going to go practice with this.”

“Oh hey, I want to come!” Imoen said. She grabbed her sword and followed.

Imoen and Abdel tested their weapons on branches and trunks of the nearby trees. When Jaheira and Khalid had returned, Abdel had started to get a feel for the warhammer. Khalid went to make lunch while Jaheira joined them with her scimitar.

“You can’t block well with a warhammer,” Jaheira told him, the second time she had gently slipped her scimitar past his guard. “You need a shield. “We’ll buy one in Beregost tomorrow.”

To Imoen she said, “Don’t open yourself so much when you swing girl! And don’t swing at me, my sword is still in your way. You strike at that which offends you first. Get my sword out of line and then go for me. The arm, if you can manage it.”

They practiced a bit more, but before long Jaheira called it quits and they went to eat lunch. The rest of the day passed peacefully, but slowly. Khalid showed Imoen how to care for the sword and Jaheira explained the various weak points in various armor types to Abdel. He had already known some, but Jaheira seemed to know every weak point. Which plates were thinnest, where only mailed covered, and the best weapons against them.

“This buffcoat,” she explained, “Can stop most cuts, but not stabs and blunt trauma.”

That night was peaceful. The clouds parted and Xzar spent the night muttering to himself and stargazing. Twice he went to speak to Montaron. The halfling was strangely not annoyed. Abdel wondered about that. He saw Jaheira mirroring his own look. He leaned over and said in a low voice, “What do you think they’re talking about?”

Jaheira looked up at the night sky. “The wizard is reading the stars.”

Abdel chuckled, but saw that Jaheira wasn’t amused. “That’s...that’s not actually real, is it? They’re just stars!”

“To you, maybe.” Jaheira said. “But to those of greater sight...the stars can tell you much.”

“The future?” Abdel asked.

“Of sorts,” Jaheira said.

“What do you see?” Abdel asked.

Jaheira looked to Abdel, then back to the stars. “Bloodshed.” she told him.

Abdel thought on that for a moment. “Then...the war between Amn and Baldur’s Gate is inevitable?”

“No, it is not.” Jaheira said. “The stars hint at things to come, but they are not written in stone. It can still be avoided...though the window is closing. The signs are becoming more and more certain. If something is not done soon...I fear there will be war.”

Abdel studied Jaheira. He almost asked her who she worked for, but thought better of it. He got up. “I should get my sleep. I’ll need it.”

“Don’t sleep on your side,” Jaheira advised.

Abdel snorted and found his bedroll. He fell asleep almost as soon as he had laid down.

 

[PsihoKekec]

Onwards to Minsc and Boo!

 

[Hlaalu Agent]

Onwards to Minsc and Boo!

And to righteous butt-kicking?

 

[PsihoKekec]

While going for the eyes!

 

[Hlaalu Agent]

While going for the eyes!

Indeed, you can never forget going for the eyes...

SQUEAK!

 

[The Original Sixth]

Chapter Six
7 Mirtul, The Year of the Banner


The next morning, Jaheira had prayed for more spells and used her magic to mend Montaron’s broken arm and leg. The halfling still complained about being sore and bruised, but Jaheira had not cared, nor it seemed, had anyone else. They broke camp after a short breakfast and before noon, the company had made it to Beregost.

The town of Beregost was larger than Abdel had thought it would be. The town had once been a small farming village, but had grown in size of t many years of trade. Although the town had started on the east side of the road, it had curiously expanded on the west side, leaving the eastern side to the dominating temple that Abdel learned was called the Song of the Morning and fields full of sheep. To the far east of the village, Abdel saw what appeared to be the ruins.

The town was full to beyond capacity when the company had arrived. The constant bandit raids between Beregost and Baldur’s Gate had left many merchants in limbo. Only a few merchant caravans departed and those that did were under heavy guard. It didn’t make it hard for Abdel to associate the high cost of his warhammer with the heavy escorts.

“We are acquainted with the governor,” Jaheira told them as they approached the town. “I can speak with him and I am sure that he would be able to accomodate us while we are in town.”

“Wow! You know the governor of Beregost? I can’t believe it!” Imoen brightened. “Oh, I hope he has a governor’s mansion!”

Montaron laughed and offered Imoen a sneer. “Aye, that he does. I hope you like the Morninglord. Because it’s all you’ll be seeing or hearing for the next day or so.”

“What do you mean?” Imoen asked.

Jaheira sighed. “Governor Kelddath Ormlyr is also known as the Most Radiant of Lathander. He is the high priest of the Song of the Morning.”

Imoen jaw fell open. She looked to the large temple and then to Jaheira. “The governor is a priest?”

Jaheira laughed. “It is not as strange as it seems. Afterall, is not Candlekeep run by monks and priests of the gods of knowledge?”

Imoen thought on that. “Yeah...I guess, although I don’t think the Old Buzzard is a priest.”

“It is not unusual for those connected to the divine to lead their people,” Jaheira explained. “They after all, can see things that others cannot and are guided by a higher power.”

Montaron snorted, “They’re just as corrupt as the rest of them. Very convenient. Need a new tax? Lathander demands it! Damn sheep it all up.”

Xzar giggled.

“An evil minded little worm like you would believe that,” Jaheira snapped. “And you would think wrong. Kelldath is a kind man who has protected and nourished this town.”

The halfling chuckled and shook his head. “You believe what you want long-ears. We’ll be staying at the Burning Wizard.”

“Then you stay at the Burning Wizard,” Jaheira said. “We’ll stay at the temple.”

“And who is we?” the halfling said slyly.

Jaheira indicated her, Khalid, Imoen, and Abdel. “Us. Obviously.”

The halfling grinned. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Jaheira said.

Abdel and Imoen looked at each other. Truth be told, Abdel did not want to stay at the temple. He thought it might remind him too much of Candlekeep. And he...he wanted to stay at another inn. Little coin as he had, Abdel had liked being out on his own and paying for his own room and board...it gave him a sense of control.

“Actually…” Abdel began.

Jaheira whirled on him. “You cannot be serious!”

“Honestly,” Imoen said. “I don’t really do well with the priest types. Too many rules.”

Jahiera’s face grew dark. “You...would rather stay with...them...at a smelly, unkempt inn instead of safely sleeping in a temple for free?”

“C’mon Jaheira…” Imoen protested. “It’s...look, it’s nothing about you.”

Montaron snorted. “No, course not.”

“Shut up!” Imoen yelled at the halfling. She looked back to Jaheira, “We really, really appreciate the offer...we really do...but…”

“P-perhaps w-we should stay at the B-bbb-burning W-Wi-Wizard.” Khalid suggested.

“Oh no!” Imoen said quickly. “Don’t do that! We don’t want to…”

“To go to a tavern with our parents.” Montaron interjected.

“Montaron!” Imoen yelled. “Shut! Up!”

But the damage had been done. Abdel saw shock in Jaheira’s eyes. She snapped at Khalid in their own language. To them she said. “Fine! Have it your way! We’ll meet you tomorrow, if you all aren’t too drunk to stand!”

“Jaheira! Jaheira wait!” Imoen protested, but Jaheira had already stormed off towards the temple, Khalid quickly in tow.

Imoen whirled on Montaron. “Look at what you did! You ass!”

Montaron only laughed.

“Why are you so mean to her?” Imoen demanded. “She saved your life you jerk!”

“Bah!” Montaron reached for a pouch and drew out a pipe. He packed it and lit it. “Her feelings aren’t hurt girl. She’s mad she didn’t get to choose where we slept. She thinks she’s the leader of this group. Well, I may be a dog, but I ain’t her dog.”

“She saved your life!” Imoen repeated.

“Because she still needs me,” Montarn said with a nod and a puff. “If she hadn’t, she would have left me for dead.”

“But you don’t have to be mean to her!” Imoen said.

“Well, if you want to go sleep in a temple, I won’t stop you.” he pointed back to the temple. You can still catch her.”

For a moment, Abdel thought that Imoen might. He face grew red, but she didn’t go back. Montaron nodded and puffed. “Okay then. Maybe next time, the damn long-eared bitch will ask us, not tell us.”

Abdel saw the point. Imoen did too. She turned an even deeper red. Satisfied, Montaron tuned and continued on his way. Abdel and Imoen followed. The Burning Wizard was unmarked, but was easy to find; it was a busy place. Montaron helped procure the rooms they’d need and they got some cheap ale. They found a table that had just been vacated.

“They don’t serve food here,” Montaron told Abdel in the busy common room, “but they have runners. They cost extra though.”

“I can get it,” Imoen said. She still looked upset.

Abdel hesitated. He didn’t think it was safe for Imoen to wander around a strange town. Especially with so many merchants and caravan guards stuck and no doubt looking for something to do. “Uh, no. Why don’t you sit down and drink? We can get something later. Or I can send a runner. It won’t be that much.”

“Abdel, it’s okay.” Imoen said. “I’ll get it. Gimme some gold. I’ll get it”

Abdel shook his head. “Just sit down.”

“Either give me some gold or I’ll find some.” Imoen said.

Abdel let out a low curse and counted out some gold dragons. “Here,” he said and placed the gold in her hand. “Don’t go far.”

“I won’t dad.” Imoen said hotly and stormed off.

It was good that she had. Abdel had suddenly flashed back to Gorion. Anger welled up in him and he could only stare at her back until she vanished into the crowd. He gripped his pint of ale tightly and resisted the urge to hurl it against a wall. Instead, he took a deep pull and tried to clear his mind. Around him, he caught the intense discussion of several caravan guards.

“Dark!” one of them gasped. “The whole family? Just like that?”

“Well, they say one of the kids might have escaped.” another said.

“And he hasn’t be caught?” said a third. “Dark and empty.”

“Just don’t go out after curfew and you’ll be fine.” a fourth said. The clerics keep the town safe enough.”

Abdel drifted his focus back to Montaron.

The halfing grinned and held up his own pint, though with greater difficulty. “Good stuff, huh?”

“Who do you work for?” Abdel asked him.

“You? Make demands of me?” Xzar roared in fury. “Be lucky I do not cut out your tongue naiv!”

The wizard got up and stalked off in fury. Abdel thought he had vanished towards the stairs to the rooms. Abdel looked back to Montaron, who sat, still grinning. Abdel repeated his question, “Who do you work for?”

The halfling chuckled. “I told ya already. If I tell ya, I have to stick ya.”

“That’s not good enough,” Abdel said. “You say Jaheira is working for someone besides the city. Okay, let’s say I believe you. So who do you work for?”

Montaron shook his head. “Yah don’t have what it takes to get that answer out of me boy. Just sip your ale and wait for red to come back with your food.”

“Who does Jaheira work for?” Abdel asked.

“If I knew that, I’d have stuck her already.” Montaron said.

“That’s not funny,” Abdel said.

“Aye, it was funny. But I was serious all the same. Montaron said and Abdel believed him.

He stared at the halfling with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. “She saved your life.”

“Aye, that she did,” Montaron said. “And if I need her alive, I’d save hers to. This isn’t knights and dragons boy, there is no good and evil at work here. Just mutual and opposing interests. The powerful and the weak. The weak serve and die. The strong dominate and live. It’s that simple.”

Montaron took a draw from his pipe.

“She doesn’t believe that,” Abdel said.

Montaron snorted. “Aye, she does believe it. She dresses it up better, but it’s milk and honey to swallow sandpaper.”

Abdel shook his head. He couldn’t understand how one man could be so cynical. “You see daggers and shadows where there are none.

Montaron snorted. “And you want another man’s wife.”

Abdel jumped to his feet and grabbed Montaron by the front of his shirt. He yanked him up and over the table. He raised a fist to punch the halfling out when he felt something prod his stomach. Surprised, he looked down to see the tip of a sword at his belly. He looked up to stare Montaron in the face.

“Let me down gentle or I’ll have to stick ya,” Montaron said. He had a broad smile on his face, but his eyes were as hard as steel.

Abdel gently placed the halfling down. Montaron sheathed his steel and offered Abdel a sneer. “Need to keep that temper of yours in check boy. Or one day you’ll get stuck and you won’t even see it coming.”

Abdel swallowed hard. He fumed at having been so easily bested. He stared at the table until he could finally find his voice. “Imoen is taking too long,” he said to the halfling. “I’m going to go look for her.”

Montaron nodded, “Keep a close eye on little red. Girl is too trusting for her own good.”

Abdel ignored the halfling and pushed his way to the door. The fresh cool air helped to calm him. He took a deep breath and started down the line of shops and inns. Away from Montaron, he processed what the halfling had said. Was it true? Was he after Jaheira? No, of course not. He told himself.

She is...pretty though. Abdel admitted. And strong...capable. And one hell of a temper. A man could admire that. Entirely opposite of that weasley little man who ran when...Abdel stopped in his tracks cold. He shuddered at where his mind had taken him so quickly. He did fancy Jaheira and he hated Khalid for it. Or maybe. Abdel was not sure he would have cared for Khalid in any case. The idea that a woman like her would suffer his touch galled him. He felt his face burn with anger.

“Dark,” Abdel shook his head and brushed back his hair. He took a deep breath. No, I won’t do that. I won’t go there. Jaheira is a travelling companion, nothing more. And she’s not perfect. She had no right to boss us around. And Montaron is probably right. Who is her employer and why is it such a secret? She might have just left Montaron there to die had not Imoen and I have been there.

Even as Abdel thought this, it felt hollow, but it soothed his envy. His temper back under control he looked around and hoped he might see where Imoen might have gone. He did not. Instead, he had wandered to the southern side of town. The town looked a bit seedier and Abdel saw a great deal more Amnians had settled in the area. Suddenly realizing he was lost, Abdel started back the way he came, in hopes of finding his way back.

Behind him was a man just under five feet tall. He had long, unkempt black hair and looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a tenday. He wore a poorly managed hauberk and carried a holy symbol to Lathander around his neck. At his waist was a warhammer. Abdel guessed him to be a cleric from the temple. The man saw Abdel and his eyes went wide.

“F-father?” he asked.

“What?”

“F-father, it’s you! I, I haven’t seen you since Zhentil Keep!” the man said. “Bless the light! I had feared that you died when the giants and dragons attacked the city!”

Abdel wrinkled his nose in disgust. The cleric had obviously drank too much. Clearly the clerics of Beregost did not take their oaths as seriously as the monks of Candlekeep to both be addled by liquor and to be seen to have done so. Abdel pushed past the cleric roughly, nearly knocking him over. “I think you have me confused with someone else goodsir.”

“You...you don’t remember your own son?” the man protested and grabbed at Abdel’s arm.

“Begone you fool!” Abdel shoved the man away from him. “Damn drunk. Lathander must be desperate to…”

“No!” the cleric screamed in fury. “No! Pain has made you forget, just like all the others! But I can make you remember! We’re going to be a family again! Hold still!”

Abdel could not control his irritation anymore. He turned and drove his fist into the cleric’s nose--or would have. The last two words the priest had spoken had carried a great weight with them. Too late Abdel realized the magical compulsion in the words. Too late he tried to keep himself from obeying. Every muscle in Abdel’s body locked up. Even his jaw would not move. Abdel stood there, half-in stride. Defenseless.

The cleric moved around for Abdel to see. His eyes were mad and he licked his lips now and again. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” the man whispered. Tears welled up in the cleric’s eyes. “It won’t last long, I promise. The divine one will bring us together again!”

The mad cleric held up a hand and Abdel saw that it had begun to glow with a red aura. He placed it upon Abdel’s breast. Pain stabbed through Abdel like a hot spike. The gambeson was shredded and blood sprayed out from between the priest’s fingers.Abdel wanted to scream, but couldn’t. With no release, the pain seemed to intensify. Abdel felt the world spin around him. Before the darkness took him, Abdel heard the mad cleric speak.

“It’s okay father, Thurm will carry you. You will be with the family soon.”

 

[PsihoKekec]

Damn, what is that lunatic doing in the town? You would think that there he would have already left such trail of carnage that everyone would be after him.

 

[The Original Sixth]

Chapter Seven

“It’s been some time Jaheira. Wine? It’s full bodied from Calimshan.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Jaheira smiled at the middle-aged priest. He was well built, with blond hair that had shifted towards white in his age. He wore a short golden beard that had already turned almost entirely white. He was dressed in his white and yellow robes of the Morning Lord. Jaheira resisted the urge to feel at ease. He is a good man, she reminded herself, but he is not an ally.

“Thank you high priest.” Jaheira said formally. She took the offered wine chalice.

“None of that Jaheira. Keldath, please.” the priest protested.

“As you wish,” Jaheira allowed. “Again, I am sorry for our unannounced visit. We had not intended to stay in Beregost, but...we had a change in plans.”

The priest eyed her. Jaheira felt as though the priest could sense every lie or half-truth...and maybe he could. Jaheira knew it was rare, but some priest of power used spells to detect such things. If he suspected her, he did not give it away. “That’s quite alright Jaheira. I know your business creates many unexpected changes. I’m glad you felt you could come here. My humble town has been hit hard by the iron crises...and now these bandit attacks.”

Jaheira raised a brow. “Has it? It seems your town inns have made more this month than the past year.”

Keldath gave her a weak smile and took a sip of his wine. “Full to the brim, but that won’t last long. Once word gets to Athkatla that bandits have choked off the road north, we’ll lose our business for the whole season. We’ve already lost two months worth of coin from the lack of steel moving through here to Baldur’s Gate.”

Jaheira scowled. “More wars in the colonies?”

Keldath gave a soft sigh, “I know you disapprove Jaheira, but we are bringing civilization and religion to the most wild and savage lands ever seen.”

“That is a kindly interpretation of imperialism,” Jaheira said pointedly. “You are contributing to the extermination of their culture.”

“One might say the same for those orcs you drove off in the north two years ago,” Keldath returned with a smile.

Jaheira felt a hard retort reach her lips, but she kept it behind her teeth. She swallowed it down and instead changed the subject back, “I take it you have spoken to the dukes? Any word on what they plan to do?”

Keldath’s smile vanished and he took a long pull from his chalice. After a while, he said. “There is little they can do Jaheira. They were so invested in their overseas colonies that by the time they realized the danger, they had already sent the bulk of their men--their best men to help fight on the front of the colonization effort.”

Jaheira looked sharply at the high priest. If Baldur’s Gate had emptied itself most of its troops, it would leave the city exposed to a war with Amn. Despite the mercantile nature of Amn, it had a large and aggressive number of mercenaries that it could call upon should the Council of Six need it. “If Baldur’s Gate is taken by Amn, it would upset the balance of nations. Amn could become a local hegemon.”

“The dukes feared blame from Amn with the iron crisis,” Keldath said, “but with these bandit attacks, the dukes are convinced that Amn is preparing to attack. If that were to happen, the dukes fear they would have to surrender their overseas colonies to satisfy the Council of Six.”

Jaheira thought for a long time. “The dukes...are they preparing to move against Amn?”

Keldath shook his head. “No, but they expect one from Amn. They’re already preparing to move two hundred troops to here in Beregost.”

Jaheira raised a brow. She did not believe the priest, but she did not say it. Though the machinations of a nation were far more complex than an animal, Jaheira knew that when a bigger dog cornered a smaller one, the smaller had no choice but to strike first. The element of surprise being the only advantage the smaller had against the larger. Baldur’s Gate was part of the Lord’s Alliance, but it was much smaller and since the iron crisis had begun, it had suffered more than Amn. The Flaming Fist would either have to hold the river the city sat north of or hold Nashkel. It was no question which the dukes would prefer.

“Isn’t two-hundred Flaming Fist troops to protect Beregost...excessive?” Jaheira said, asking the obvious question. “You do plan on being neutral in the war, don’t you?”

The priest hesitated. He took a pull from his wine. “Of course Jaheira. You should know that.”

The hesitation however, had told Jaheira all she needed to know. Keldath would allow the dukes to use the town as a staging ground to attack Nashkel. She took a sip of her own wine. “Between a rock and a hard place. It seems things could not get much worse for you Keldath.”

Keldath gave her a sad smile. “That’s where you’re wrong Jaheira. Have you not heard of Bassilus?”


********


Abdel felt himself falling. He opened his eyes. He lay in a forest. The trees were tall and twisted, with exposed roots and gaping holes in their trunks that reminded Abdel of mouths and eyes. No leaves grew on their limbs. A terrible darkness permeated the air around him. Dark clouds covered the sky and flashes of green lightning flashed in the far distance.

“Where am I?” Abdel wondered. His voice echoed and he wondered what it meant.

A voice so low that Abdel had at first thought it was the wind answered. “The end is near.”

Abdel felt his breath catch. Memory caught up with him. The priest! He had used some sort of spell. Abdel put a hand to his chest. He felt no pain, but it came away bloody. Abdel blanched. He looked down and discovered his entire tunic was soaked with his own blood. From behind him, Abdel heard the voice give a soft laugh.

“He has murdered you.” the voice said.

Abdel’s hand shook. “No. No, I’m still alive.”

“You will die.” the voice said. “You will die...unless…”

The voice let it hang. Abdel felt the hairs on his neck rise. A terror worse than death played at the edge of his mind. He couldn’t breath. “Unless...what?” he asked.

“Unless you look behind you.” the voice said.

Somehow, Abdel thought that death seemed preferable. Abdel thought he felt something lean close behind his ear. “See me and be saved. Look away and die.”

Abdel sucked in a breath of air. He gasped and grabbed at his chest. “Who are you?” he asked.

Abdel heard something wet, like the licking of a long tongue on lips. “I am you.”

Abdel wanted to deny it, but a part of him knew it to be true. He swallowed. Slowly, he turned to see who was behind him. His eyes met dark black pits and…

Abdel screamed. He leapt up from the ground and searched desperately for his hammer, but found it nowhere. The woods were all around him, but they were no longer twisted or terrible looking and they all bore leaves. He had been dreaming. Or partially.

Where the terrible apparition in his nightmare had been stood the priest who had attacked him in the streets. The mad priest had discarded his hauberk and tabard that marked him as one of the town guards, but had kept the defaced holy symbol of the Morning Lord. He stared at Abdel in astonishment.

“Father?” the priest said. The priest looked down into his hands. In his hands the priest held a dagger, as if confused. He looked back up to Abdel. He sounded hopeful. “You are...feeling better? Do you remember? Do you remember me?”

Abdel grabbed at the hole in his chest, but found that it had been healed. His flesh was solid again, with no sign that he had been wounded, save for his ruined gambeson and clothes. Abdel looked at the priest, then around the woods--and immediately wished he hadn’t.

They were in a small clearing. Not far away, the construction of a poorly made home was under construction by several staggering and limping figures. Around them smaller figures, who Abdel took to be halflings wandered almost aimlessly around the larger ones who worked on the house. The house itself was four walls of poorly bounded crude planks and no roof. It looked as though a stiff wind wound knock it flat.

“It’s almost done father!” the mad priest said. He pointed to the shuffling zombies. “It’ll be just like home, you’ll see! Mother has been worried sick, but I told her I’d find you. Oh, mother! Mother! Father is back! Come here! Mother!”

Out of home stumbled another figure. Abdel gasped when he saw a woman, who must not have been much older than him, stagger into the moonlight. Her eyes were fogged over, the skin pale and torn in places. Her dress was torn in places and Abdel saw that her throat had been cut open. Her hair had been clumsily made into a bun.

“See! Beautiful as the day you met her!” the priest nudged him and winked. His face grew dour at Abdel’s expression. For a moment, the priest seemed frantic. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong with her? It can’t be, I made her remember! And I made you remember to! What is it?”

Abdel could not speak. The revulsion had paralyzed him. The mad priest snapped his fingers. “Of course! Mother! Where is father’s meal? He’s had a long, harrowing journey! I told you he would be hungry! Now he is cross! Go and get him his meal woman!”

Abdel looked at the mad priest and tried to find the lie or trick in his eyes. He saw none. Gods, he believes all of this. He believes it all. He’s mad! Truly mad!

“And you won’t believe who also survived the attack!” the priest said. He turned and called to the working zombies, “Timmy! Jenny! Come here and see grandpa!”

“Attack? What attack?” Abde said, trying to find something normal to latch onto.

The priest looked at him, confused. “The attack father. Don’t you remember? Zhentil Keep! Blessed Lathander led me to the city just before the...the ceremony...and then the giants...and the dragons...I-we ran...we all got separated...and you all forgot about me...it…”

Puzzlement overcame the priest’s face. His face turned red as he tried to remember something. Panic slowly engulfed his face. He seemed on the verge of his skull splitting in two when two shambling figures caught his attention. The panic vanished and he turned, eyes wide and a big smile on his face. “Timmy! Jenny! Grandpa is back! I told you I’d find him!”

Abdel looked down and nearly lost his last meal. Two children, between eight and twelve, stood before him. The girl had dark bruises all over her and her left arm was broken in several places. There was a terrible rope burn on her right leg. The boy had a broken neck. They stared at him with foggy, vacant eyes. They had not been dead long; enough life remained in their skin that Abel thought that they must have been living, happy children only a few days ago.

“They gave me quite the workout!” the priest told him. “Why, little Jenny fought me all the way back home! I had to stop and put some sense into her. Didn’t I Jenny? Nod Jenny.”

The dead girl jerked its head left and right, then toppled over.. The priest gave no indication that he had noticed. He turned to the dead boy, “And Timmy here had me chase him half the night! Half the night! I nearly throttled him when I got my hands on him!”

Abdel felt very vivid flashes. He could see the mad priest chasing the children down. Their terror, his madness. Their desperation to escape and the deranged anger. The priest had killed both the children, then used his foul powers to enslave their bodies after death.

“Father? Are you alright? You seem ...upset.”

Abdel turned and stared daggers at the mad priest. The priest scowled. “Father,” he said, his voice suddenly angry. “I don’t want to talk right now. Go and help the others build the house.”

Abdel didn’t move. The impulses of murder shot through his brain with such intensity that if he moved, he would kill the man on the spot. He tried to contain the burning hatred. The priest’s scowl deepened. “Father, you didn’t hear me. Don’t make me punish you. Timmy and Jenny--”

Abdel exploded into rage. He grabbed the mad priest by the hem of his tunic and yanked him into a waiting fist. The priest stammered and tried to say something, but Abdel delivered another punch. And another. And another. He threw the priest to the ground and looked for something he might use as a weapon, but found nothing. He grabbed for the knife at his belt. He’d cut the bastard’s throat open.

“Help! Help me!” the priest screamed.

From all around, the zombies dropped whatever they had been doing and charged. The pace was slow, but Abdel would have no more than a few seconds before they surrounded him. Abdel didn’t care. He lunged for the priest, but the madman scrambled away, screaming something Abdel didn’t catch and pointing at him. Finally, Abdel caught one of his legs and dragged him back. He raised the knife, which had grown warm in his hand. He pinned the priest with his foot and prepared for the final blow…

The knife suddenly became searing hot in his hand. Abdel gasped in surprise and instinctively released the knife. It took Abdel a moment to piece together what had happened. He turned on the priest, but before he could think of how to kill the man, the two children zombies slammed into him.

Abdel grunted and managed to retain his balance. The two children beat upon him with their small fists. Abdel shoved them away as hard as he could. He turned to finish the priest, but now the priest had the defaced holy symbol out between them. “On your knees cur!” he screamed.

Abdel felt the command go right to his brain. Despite his resistance, he staggered backwards and fell on his hands and knees. He glared up hate at the mad priest, who had gotten to his feet. “You’re not my father!” the priest screamed. “Liar! Imposter! Kill him! Kill him! He is a servant of Cyric the Mad!”

Abdel felt two full grown zombie slam into him. One of them was his “wife”. She beat at him with an iron ladle. The other zombie had not carried a weapon, but instead struck him with fists. Their blows were so hard that had they landed solid blows, Abdel was sure they would have broken bone. As it was, they got in each other’s way.

Abel tried to roll away and was amazed to find his body respond. He wondered if the priest’s spell had been broken by their attack or if the spell itself had been short-lived. He swung at the wife zombie and his blow sent her careening backwards into several more zombies. Excluding the children, Abdel counted nine.

“That’s right!” the mad priest shrieked. “Kill the imposter! Kill him dead!”

The zombies tripped over each other to get at Abdel. Knowing he would be a dead man if they managed to surround him, Abdel retreated. The zombies pressed. Behind them, Abdel heard the priest begin a long, wicked chant. Heavy purple mist crept along the grass. The mist formed the shapes of many heads. Some whispered, others laughed, and yet others wailed. Abdel felt a great weight fall upon him; some great and terrible evil that he could not name. He only knew that it was the unmistakable power of a god.

Abdel felt his courage leave him. How could he fight a man who could command the dead and had the favor a god? He needed a weapon. His knife had been lost. He looked around and spotted not far away several objects strewn together. Including the hauberk the mad priest had worn.

Abdel ran for the pile. There he found his trusty warhammer and...a second warhammer. Abdel recalled it had been the one that the priest himself had back in town. He picked it up--it was lighter than his warhammer, yet it seemed to carry an unfelt weight. It had no wooden shaft for its handle, but rather a steel one with golden trim. Something seemed to be etched upon the shaft, but Abdel could not make it out in the nightblue sky with only the moonlight to see by.

Confidence returned, though he still felt the incredible strength of the god beating down upon him. He saw too that the zombies came at him with a vigor they had not had before, as if the godly presence instead inspired them. Abdel gritted his teeth and drew back his warhammer and released it in a calculated throw at the wife zombie.

The godly presence had hampered Abdel’s throw, but the hammer connected almost squarely on the chest. Abel heard ribs crack. The zombie slowed, but the spell that animated its body had not been broken. The zombie might have continued after Abdel, but the zombies behind it trampled beneath their feet, through three more lost their footing.

The first zombie moved in to catch Abdel. Abdel swung at the zombie and it felt like swinging through water. Abdel felt his heart catch; he had miscalculated the swing--or so he had thought. Guided by an unseen force, the hammer adjusted the swing and struck the zombie in the head. The zombie’s head exploded and it went down and did not get up.

Two other zombies reached Abdel. They lunged at him and grabbed onto his gambeson. Abdel swung at one of them and connected with its shoulder. Bones splintered and a spasm went through the zombie that forced it to release its hold on him. The other zombie tugged at him and Abdel had to resist being thrown to the ground. The zombie looked to have once been an emancipated middle aged man, but his strength matched Abdel’s!

Abdel swung and caught it on the narrow of its back. Abdel heard its spine snap. The zombie jerked wildly and collapsed, unable to get up. Two more zombies reached him. They bore wooden planks as clubs. One swung and caught Abdel on the arm. Despite the protection of the gambeson and the poor shape of the weapon, pain exploded into Abdel’s arm and at first feared that the blow had broken his arm. He stumbled backwards and by sheer luck, avoided a blow from the second zombie. Behind those two came four more.

Too many.

Abdel backed away and ran. After several paces he felt the heavy pressure of the god vanish. He could still hear the priest chanting behind him. It must only go out so far, he realized as he ran. Behind him the zombies pursued him. Abdel reached the treeline and the chanting stopped.

“Kill him!” the priest screamed in rage. “He must not leave this place! He will tell the others! And the giants and dragons will return to kill us!”

The zombies did not seemed motivated by the priest’s words, but pursued Abdel with the same mindless persistence as before. Abdel had put considerable ground between him and the zombies. The woods around the small clearing were thick with roots and bushes. Abdel thought of the wife zombie he had fallen. It lay where it had, having been trampled back into undeath by its fellow zombies. Whatever the terms of the spell, the zombies did not seem to have full control of their facilities. That gave Abdel an idea.

Abdel retreated into the trees and bushes. As he’d hoped, the zombies came after him. They stumbled among the roots and bushes. Abel met the first two. He struck the first one on the head with a blow that caved its skull inward, then struck the other across the face. Both fell, their flesh smoldering. Abdel wondered, but not for long. The rest of the zombies pushed through the bushes and pass the trees.

Clumsy as they were, Abdel did not stay to fight. The roots were as much a danger to him as they were them. He drew them in a bit further, then made a quick dash around the mob. When he cleared the tree line, he made a mad run for the priest. Overhead, Abdel could see the gold and crimson of the coming dawn. The priest saw him and realized the danger. He called frantically to his zombies, but only the two children zombies had not reached the woods. Abdel avoided them; with their short legs and clumsy gaits, they would not be able to catch him.

Abdel closed on the priest. He had learned from his father that without the mage to command or direct it, many spells would weaken or fail. Abdel did not know if that were true for the priest--or the magic he had used to raise the dead. But he prayed to Tempus that he was right. The priest drew out a dagger and intoned words to a spell. A crimson aura encompassed his free hand. Abdel eyed the hand, but did not slow. He would kill the bastard before he could hurt Abdel with his foul magic again. The mad priest sneered. “Imposter! Imposter! Die! Die!”

Abel reached the priest and swung. The priest tried to leap out of the way, but Abdel’s new hammer caught on the lower left ribs. Abdel heard bones crack. The priest screamed and his body jerked. He screamed hate at Abdel and lunged forward with his dagger. Abdel gave leapt back to avoid the frantic stabs. His gambeson offered no protection to piercing weapons. He swung out with his hammer and was astonished when the priest did not evade, but instead took the blow on his dagger arm.

The bone in the arm snapped, but the priest snatched at Abdel’s hammer arm with his good hand. Too late Abdel realized the danger. Terrible energy discharged into his arm. The gambeson on the spot was torn away and fire seemed to spike through Abdel’s entire arm. He heard something snap. The hammer dropped from his grasp.

The priest laughed. “My turn!”

He reached for the hammer with his good hand. Abdel used his good hand to drive his fist into the priest’s face. Teeth flew. The priest staggered backwards. Abdel stepped over the hammer, to keep the priest from recovering it again. The priest went wide eyed, turned and ran.

Abdel followed. He chased the mage through the woods behind, across the plain, to a high cliff that oversaw the rough lands beyond. The mad priest must not have realized the cliff until he reached it. He let out a cry and tore the holy symbol from his neck and held it up for Abdel to see. His eyes were wild.

“Begone! Begone!” the priest screamed, tears in his eyes.

Abdel stopped and tensed, ready for whatever spell the priest might have caste, but nothing happened. Abdel realized then that the priest must have spent all the magic his foul god had given him. He stared daggers at the mad priest and advanced.

“Stay back!” Stay back!” the priest wailed. Tears were in his face.

“You’re going to die for what you did.” Abdel said, his voice low and full of venom.

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” the priest screamed.

“I saw you. I saw them.” Abdel closed on the priest. Even with only one good arm, he knew he could kill the priest.

“I didn’t run! I didn’t run!” the priest protested.

Abdel stared at him. His rage almost forgotten. “Then what are you doing here?”

“I-I, no! I came to save you! I came to save all of you!” the mad priest wailed. “When I learned of Cyric’s inquisitors and what they were doing, I came to save you! I came to save you! But then the giants came. And the dragons! Cyric was going to save us! Was going to save me! He promised me! It was his fault! And then...oh gods...no...no...they’re all dead. They died and I ran. I ran!”

The priest screamed in rage and tossed his symbol aside and ran straight for Abdel. Abdel swung, but missed. The madman, despite all that seemed possible, grabbed onto his neck with both hands, despite the broken bones. Abdel felt the priest tighten his grip, his eyes wide with madness and rage.

“Why couldn’t you have just died!” the madman spat. “Died and let me be happy! We could have been a family! We could have been a family!”

Abdel struggled to break free of the man. Despite Abdel’s greater size, the priest was driven by his mania and Abdel could not break free. Dots exploded into his vision and Abdel knew the madman would choke the life out of him. Desperate, he flailed at the madman with his fists and knees. He felt things break, felt the madman struggle to breath, but still the grip was there. In a haze, Abdel fought the madman with everything he could muster, until finally, they had both reached the edge.

In their struggle, the priest made a misstep. The sudden shock of no solid dirt caused the madman to loosen his grip. Abdel jerked away. The hand with the broken arm lost its hold. The priest screamed and scratched at Abdel’s throat for purchase. He found it in the chain of the amulet that Gorion had gifted to his son.

Abdel jerked and punched to loosen the madman. The chain bit into his neck. He punched and punched, but the madman would not release his grip. The two struggled; Abdel trying to toss the madman free and off the cliff, the madman trying either to keep his hold or pull Abdel with him. In the end, it was the chain that gave first.

With a snap, the chain broke and the madman was flung away from Abdel. Abdel watched as the madman fell thirty feet, struck an outcropping of the cliff and tumbled down and out of sight. Abdel stared down at the cliff for a long moment, then backed away two steps, afraid he might somehow fall off too.

Weariness took Abdel and he collapsed into the long grass. Something hard and cold brushed up against his good hand. Abdel picked it up and stared at the defaced holy symbol. Reminded of the dawn, Abdel looked and saw the first rays of light shine up into the sky. He took a pained breath. He was alive.

But not for long.

Abdel saw them; the four remaining adult zombies raced toward him, followed by the two children zombies. Abdel had forgotten about them. It seemed that the magic had not failed after the priest’s death. He tried to think, but all he could do was wonder why the zombies had not died with their master. Abdel had no weapon and in his state, he knew he could not escape them. Abdel only had the defaced holy symbol.

His legs shaking, Abdel struggled to his feet. He looked at the disc in his hand. It was copper. He hoped that it might add weight to his hand when he punched the first zombie. He looked up and saw the zombies then. Only twenty feet. Abdel swallowed and looked up to the dawn.

Abdel was not sure how, but in that moment he remembered reading stories of brave men of piety who had used the holy image of their god to drive back vampires and evil spirits. Abdel was no man of faith, but he also figured zombies did not have the same power in them as vampires or ghosts. With nothing for it, Abdel raised the holy symbol.

“Begone!” he shouted. “Begone!”

The zombies did not slow. Abdel swallowed. “Begone!” he cried again. “Begone!”

The zombies tackled him. Pain exploded in Abdel’s bad arm and he was nearly thrown over the cliff. His weak legs buckled. A second slammed into him and he was down on the ground. A third one hit, but rolled over and flew over the cliff.

The zombies rose. Abdel knew what would come next. He stared up at fists strong enough to break bone. He raised the symbol again and tried once more. “In the name of Lathander, begone!”

At that very moment, the light of dawn fell upon them. The zombies stiffened. Smoke began to sizzle off their pale, decayed flesh. Then, with a soft moan, one of the zombies fell on its back and burst into spirals of black ash. The second followed. Behind him, the remaining zombies collapsed. Abdel watched in amazement as the sun’s rays destroyed the zombies to the last.


*********


Tamoko laid down the small bowl and held up her prayer beads. She had spent days trying to divine the young man that Sarevok sought to murder. Her conscious jabbed at her even as she recited the prayer; asked that the spirits grant her the vision to see the young man. Once more she saw the water in the bowl swirl, saw it shift to form the blurred images of grass, trees, perhaps a building, and moving shapes--then the spell failed.

Tamoko sagged and allowed the spell to fizzle. Another failure. The jabs of her conscious had grown into painful stabs. The boy...he had done nothing wrong. Yet...her beloved desired his death. She had thought at first it some sort of blood feud. That Sarevok’s honor had been wounded and only their deaths would amend it--that she could understand, but her beloved did not act as a man who had been wounded...no, he acted as a predator.

An uncomfortable thought occurred to her; had her magic failed her because she did not believe in her course? She shook her head. No. The spirits had never failed her. The spell had worked. She had been blocked by some sorcery. That offered her little comfort. She turned her thoughts to Sarevok and thought about what he would say if she had returned without the young man. Would she forgive him?

Tamoko hoped that his love for her would be strong enough...but feared that his expectations would not permit Sarevok to accept such failure. Not even from her. Especially not from her. The fear allowed for paranoia to slip in. The woman...the mad follower of Cyric who had joined them. Tamoko had seen the appraising looks the woman had given her beloved. And though Sarevok had always seemed to be too consumed by his plans to notice, Tamoko feared he had noticed. Knew he had noticed. Sarevok was no fool.

The thought of what the tramp would do while Tamoko was away had gnawed at her for days. Ever since Sarevok’s departure. She tried to fight the paranoia with reassurances that Sarevok was a man of honor and integrity. Who deeply loved her...but he was a man. A great man. And Tamoko knew that great men would play with their toys if given a chance.

If she has done anything with him,I will kill her, Tamoko promised herself savagely. She looked down to the bowl and began her prayer a second time. She announced the words with anger in her voice and felt the spirits shudder with each syllable. Tamoko almost thought that they might not heed her prayers, but they did.

And gasped when she saw the crystal clear image of the young man stumbling on a road. Tamoko’s heart caught. She did not believe it possible. Had she broken through the ward that had protected the young man or had it been destroyed? Was it a sign by the spirits? Tamoko decided that it must be. Proof that her love for Sarevok was pure. Proof that his aims were noble. Tamoko adjusted the image with mental effort. Slowly, afraid that the spell might somehow fail if she moved it too quickly.

The image of a town came to view. Tamoko’s heart jumped. Eagerly she tried to find a landmark. There were a few towns or villages within reach that the man could be in. She needed to find...and then she saw it. The familiar glint of the rose-colored dome that had awed her many years ago. She sucked in air. Beregost. The boy was in Beregost. He had gone south.

Tamoko dismissed the spell. She stood. She was weak from the exertion of her magic, but she had no time to lose. From the bandit camp, it would take two, maybe three days to reach Beregost at a quick pace. Tamoko had caste aside her doubt. She would bring the boy to Sarevok and secure her place as his future wife.

The blond whore would remain a whore.