Baldur's Gate by Philip Athans Page B

again, stumbled, and fell, his chin hitting the coarse, wet grass hard. A fly or a bee buzzed in his ear, and he grunted at the effort of pulling his arm in and under him. He cut himself—not seriously—on his sword when he tried to stand, and the pain sent a burst of energy through him like he’d been splashed with cold water. He stood and, one step at a time, gave chase.
    Abdel took no more than half a dozen steps before falling again. This time he had to stop and think. He couldn’t move at all.
    He lay there for what seemed like forever, just wanting to get up and run after that hideous stinking piece of undead garbage that had done this unspeakable thing. The horrid creature had eaten Gorion’s body. Gorion—a man who had led a life in the service of Torm at the monastery of Candlekeep, raised an orphan child for no apparent reason other than that it was the right thing to do for that child—was now food for useless carrion eaters, two members of a leech species that should be eradicated—burned— from the face of Toril.
    Abdel became a paralyzed mass of white-hot indignation, and he screamed loud enough to scare birds from trees miles away. A child in Candlekeep started to cry, and his parents didn’t know why. A whale swimming past the rocky edge of the Sword Coast took note of the sound and formed a rumbling response that gave the sahuagin communities pause. A god, then another glanced down, but it was by sheer force of will that Abdel made himself stand.
    A scream—less forceful, more terrified, weaker—came from a thick clump of trees almost big enough to be called a forest several yards in front of him. Dragging his feet like they were booted in lead, Abdel followed the still echoing sound into the trees. It was dark in there, and he blinked his eyes trying to get them to adjust, but like his feet they reacted slowly. He was holding his sword—too tight, but he couldn’t relax. He doubted he could fight, but he might be able to kill, and the way he was feeling now, might be was good enough.
    He tripped over something wet and heavy that smelled so bad he actually started to vomit before his face hit the ground. He made himself roll, and it took long enough that some of the meal he’d eaten that morning splashed back into his face. He grunted in anger and disgust, but not at himself. He’d tripped over the ghoul, and a wave of disappointment washed over him. The thing was already dead.
    “I told them,” a strangely familiar, inhuman voice came from above. “I told them not to eat that one—not that one.”
    “Korak,” Abdel grunted more than spoke the ghoul’s name. He managed to get to his feet again, and when he wiped the vomit from his face he could smell the ghoul and actually regretted wiping the vomit away.
    “Korak, yes, that’s me,” the ghoul said. It was sitting in a tree above him, and Abdel brought his sword up, sure the ghoul was going to try to drop on him.
    “Bastard,” Abdel breathed, “you bastard…”
    “Not me,” the ghoul said indignantly. “No, not me! I knew! I knew not to eat that one. I told them not to eat that one. I killed one for you.”
    “What?” Abdel muttered. “Who killed … ?” He put a hand stiffly to his head and staggered. He wanted to fall down and sleep—fall down and die—but he knew he had to remain standing. Like always, what seemed like every day of his life now, he had to take vengeance. He had to settle a score. He had to kill. Abdel was tired.
    “I killed this one that ate my old teacher, your father, though I can’t remember his name—your father’s,” the ghoul explained.
    Abdel shook his head and walked away.
    “I did,” Korak pressed.
    “I know, I know,” Abdel said.
    “Come with you, yes?” Korak babbled. “You go to Cloak Wood. I know Cloak Wood.”
    “I’m not going into the Cloak Wood.”
    “I know Cloak Wood. I take you there. I come with you.”
    “No,” Abdel said. “No, ghoul. I’ll kill you if you follow me.