Pool of Radiance

by James M. Ward

  When Shal reached Tarl’s table, his face lit up. It crossed her mind that she was fortunate to have found a companion like Tarl. Within moments after she sat down, the two were talking about recent events in their lives. Shal’s conversation meandered from present to past and back again. She described the events leading up to Ranthor’s death. She told Tarl stories of the special things her teacher had done for her, and talked about how it felt to be carrying on without him. Embarrassed, she related the story of her squandered wishes and the little she knew about Denlor’s tower.

  Tarl, in turn, described the horrors he had faced in the graveyard. For some reason, he disclosed to Shal even more than he had told to Brother Tern. He described in detail the horror of the horses’ screams and the screams of his brothers. He told about the vampire, with its bloodless skin and bone-chilling deep voice. He omitted only the exact way in which the hammer was lost, since he considered its recovery his personal quest. Perhaps he would tell Shal about it in time, but for now he had said enough.

  “I’m sorry to bore you with my story,” Tarl concluded. “The deaths of my friends weigh heavily on me, but I still can’t believe I’m telling all this to you.”

  At a loss for words, Shal sat quietly for several minutes, lost in thought. “What makes me feel so bad,” she said finally, “is that I let you heal me and help me find clothes and a place to stay without ever even considering that you might have your own problems.”

  “Enough said, my friend. Let’s eat.” Tarl clapped his hands to get the attention of the big blond man who was working the tables.

  “We’ll take chowder and biscuits … oh, and wine for the two of us,” said Tarl after consulting with Shal. “Is there anything else you’d recommend?”

  The big tavern worker didn’t respond. Instead, he stood staring, slack-jawed, at Shal. Tarl cleared his throat to capture his attention again.

  “Yes, sir … ma’am. Would you repeat that?”

  Tarl repeated his order and his query.

  “Well, we have some quail eggs that the cook does a terrific job on. They’d go well with your chowder.” The tavern worker’s intense blue eyes never left Shal as he spoke, and Tarl noticed that she was turning red under the big man’s scrutiny.

  “Is there something going on here that I’m not aware of? Do you two know each other?” asked Tarl, irritated by the attention the man was paying to Shal, not to mention the obvious discomfort he was causing her.

  “No, sir,” said the tavern worker, and he bowed hurriedly and left the table. Tarl noted that the man did not move like a typical tavern worker. Despite the fact that he stood a hand taller than Tarl and had brawn that rivaled Anton’s, the big man made his way through the crowd with the grace of a warrior, or perhaps even a thief.

  In minutes, he returned with a tray full of food, which he spread out on the table one dish at a time. Again, his full attention was focused on Shal.

  “Are you always in the habit of staring at the inn’s guests?” Tarl asked, catching the tavern worker’s sleeve to get his attention.

  “Was I staring?” The waiter paused, and his face flushed a deep red. He realized that was exactly what he had been doing. “Please accept my apologies. It’s just that you … you remind me of someone. I really am sorry.”

  “Hey, you!” came a shout from a nearby table. “What happened to our food?”

  “Yeah, what does a guy have to do to get some service in this joint?” called another voice.

  Ren was oblivious. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m called Ren … Ren o’ the Blade.” Ren shook Tarl’s hand and then Shal’s. He consciously looked down at the floor to avoid staring again. The woman could have passed for Tempest’s twin. Seeing her was eerie, like seeing a ghost, but overwhelming at the same time. The woman shared all the traits that had originally attracted him to Tempest—her firm figure, her captivating eyes, her flowing red hair. And if anything, she was even prettier. Her facial features were fine for a woman her size, and the green of her eyes was even more intense than Tempest’s had been.

  One of the men who had called from a nearby table, a warrior with a sword and a long dagger at his belt, was approaching Ren from behind. “Hey, you there!” The man’s words were slow and slurred, but Ren understood nonetheless. “Ya big galoot! We got food comin’, and we’re sick o’ waitin’ for you.”

  “I’d like to speak with you again later if I have a chance,” Ren said to Tarl and Shal, then turned to face the warrior. “Excuse me.” He turned and ushered the drunk back to his table. “I’ll have your food in a minute,” Ren said as he sat the man down firmly. “Now, if you’ll all pardon me,” he added, bowing as he left the warrior and his companions.

  Shal watched Ren work his way back through the crowd, then she turned back to Tarl. “First that seamstress, and now this guy. Every time I start to feel as if I can cope with the change in my appearance, someone looks at me as if I were a freak.”

  “He said you remind him of someone. I’m sure that’s why he was staring,” Tarl assured her. “He didn’t seem to be trying to be rude or unmannerly. In fact, he went out of his way to be polite and took a big chance of offending that warrior and his comrades.”

  “That’s for sure. I hope he doesn’t turn his back on those fellows tonight.” Shal took her first spoonful of the chowder and realized after having a second that she was famished. Tarl did likewise, and the two forgot about conversation and began to eat heartily.

  When Ren finally brought out the beef pies and refills of the pitchers of ale ordered by the table of fighters, they complained bluntly about his service. Under ordinary circumstances, Ren probably would have apologized and tried to do something to make amends, but on this night, he wasn’t even paying attention. Instead, he was staring once again at Shal. He set the plates down on one end of the table, making no attempt to match orders. And when he started pouring the ale, he accidentally overfilled one of the cups, sloshing ale in the laps of the customer.

  “What do you think you’re doing, you clumsy oaf?” the warrior blurted angrily.

  “I’m awfully sorry. Here,” said Ren, handing the man a bar rag. “I’ve got to find out her name,” he muttered, as if to himself.

  Ren turned on his heels and strode to the table where Shal and Tarl remained seated. Behind him, the fighters were sputtering angrily, but Ren neither saw nor heard them. He was staring down again at the woman who so startingly resembled his lost love. “May I know your name?”

  Shal didn’t answer. Instead, she pointed behind him. Ren didn’t react, but Tarl did. From the corner of his eye he had been watching Ren ever since he first approached the warriors. When Ren spilled the ale and walked away, Tarl knew there was going to be trouble. “Dagger!” shouted Tarl, and he rushed past Ren and tackled the approaching fighter.

  Ren spun around to confront the three other men who had been sitting at the table. Normally Ren would have tried to maneuver in such a way that he only had to face one man at a time, but he didn’t want any of these rabble getting anywhere close to the woman behind him. He spread his bearlike arms as wide as they would go and plowed forward, taking all three men to the floor with him.

  Sot heard the noise of the fight before he saw what was happening. “Not another fight!” he muttered to no one in particular. “Used to be a scuffle in a tavern was no big deal, but now the town council sends the Watch Guards out to break it up. A guy can lose customers that way.” He grabbed his club and leaped over the bar. Unfortunately, he landed hard on the foot of a customer who was making his way toward the center of the action. Sot learned the hard way that it is almost impossible to apologize with a cudgel in your hand, and in moments the entire inn had joined the fray.

  Shal watched as Tarl expertly administered a chop to the neck of the man with the dagger and sent him reeling. Quickly he followed up to finish the job, while Ren was wrestling with two of the warriors he had knocked to the floor. The third was up and was about to kick Ren in the spleen
, but Shal leaped into the action and pushed him hard from behind, screaming, “Leave him alone!” The man fell full belly onto a table of food and immediately began to be pummeled by several people who had been calmly attempting to eat despite the fracas.

  “Hey! What do you know?” said Shal, looking down at her hands. “Being strong has some advantages after all!”

  “You all right, Shal?” asked Tarl, pausing after fending off still another brawler with a well-placed kick.

  “So the name is Shal, is it?” Ren shouted as he pushed one of the warriors toward a boisterous knot of fighters that had formed near the center of the room. “Do you have any relatives in Waterdeep?”

  “No,” called Shal above the din. “Why do you ask?”

  At this point, five fighters advanced toward the trio. Two well-armed women rushed toward Tarl like charging bulls, and two good-sized men began to pummel Ren with their fists. The fifth fighter planted himself squarely in front of Shal and began to wind up for a punch to her midsection. Shal had never been in a fistfight before. Instinctively she threw her arms up to protect her face and tensed every muscle in her body. His blow to her firm stomach didn’t even phase her. Slack-jawed, the man looked up at Shal, his face turning green. She looked down at him, formed a fist just like her attacker’s but larger, and slammed a hard uppercut into the man’s chin. He staggered back and crashed to the floor well beyond where her first victim had landed.

  Meanwhile, Ren and Tarl had dispatched their attackers just in time to see the results of Shal’s punch. “Whoa there, girl!” Tarl called out, panting. “You should be protecting us!” Tarl stole a moment to glance at Ren, and Shal and the two men broke into smiles and turned as one to face whatever riffraff might still be of a mind to tackle them, but there were no takers. Most of the crowd were occupied with brawls of their own. The few people who’d been paying attention were frozen by the remarkable prowess of the three fighters, who fought as if they’d been battling together for years.

  “We’d better get out of here,” grunted Ren to his new companions. “The Watch Guard will be here any minute. They sentence people for brawling now in ‘Civilized’ Phlan.”

  Quickly the three worked their way to the inn’s big double doors and pushed through. Before they even had a chance to step into the street, they were blocked by seven members of the Watch Guard. The guards wasted no time expertly slipping the loops of their man-catchers around the necks of the three. The strange implements were basically nothing more than nooses on long poles, designed to keep captives a safe distance from their captors. A quick jerk of the torturous implements by the guards sent the three to their knees, choking, effectively eliminating any thoughts of resistance. Another practiced jerk, and they were standing again.

  “Take them before the council,” instructed the group’s leader. “We’ll get the rest of this rabble cleaned up in short order.”

  “Even man-catchers have their weaknesses,” Tarl whispered to Ren.

  Ren shook his head. “Don’t try anything, friend. The sentence for fighting here is mild compared to the one for resisting the Watch Guard. It isn’t worth it.”

  “You’ve got that right,” one of the guards said as he prodded them along. “Now, shut up and get a move on. The night’s council representative is waiting for you.”

  Porphyrys Cadorna loved night council duty. As Tenth Councilman, he seldom had a chance to demonstrate his wisdom; there were always nine others whose views superseded his. But during night duty, he was judge and jury for whatever citizens were dragged into the council chambers. Cadorna dreamed of the advancements he would earn as the wisdom of his judgments became known to the rest of the council and the voting representatives of Phlan. Naturally he would make certain that his decisions were widely known.

  Porphyrys was the last living member of the noble Cadornas, a family respected for its wealth and power until the time of the Dragon Run. The Cadorna Textile House was among many businesses and landmarks destroyed by the onslaught of dragons that leveled Phlan fifty years ago, and its ruins remained just outside the civilized portion of the city, under the control of the darker forces of Phlan. When his last uncle was on his deathbed, Porphyrys vowed, for reasons of honor and reasons of his own, to return the name of his family to prominence. His personal goal was nothing less than to rule Phlan, no matter what the cost. Porphyrys was a patient man—he had worked his way through the ranks of the assembly and finally attained the position of Tenth Councilman—but he had been a long time waiting, and now he was ready to take any steps necessary to get what he wanted.

  Cadorna stretched his long legs. Yes, making the council, even the tenth seat, was definitely a step in the right direction. With the council supervising every facet of the city’s life, there was hardly anything he wasn’t able to get his hands into. A man on the council was a veritable king.

  And the man in the first seat is king, thought Cadorna, or at least as close to king as one could get in Phlan. He moved around the table and sat in the First Councilman’s chair. Yes, this feels more like it, he thought, wriggling down in the plush seat to make himself more comfortable. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Quickly getting up, Cadorna hurried back to the tenth chair. “Come in!” he shouted, a little louder than necessary.

  “Your dinner, Councilman,” the attendant announced. “Also, the mage, Gensor, is here and wishes to speak with you about one of the parties whose case you will be reviewing in the next session.”

  “Send him in.”

  Gensor worked for the city, checking and setting up magical seals, scanning prisoners for magical items, and sometimes providing interpretations of supernatural events. In addition to his official duties, he also worked privately, on an assignment basis, for Cadorna. Cadorna found Gensor’s insight useful, but nevertheless always felt uneasy around the mage. It was said that magic-users could read men’s minds.

  The black-robed mage entered the chambers and found Cadorna sitting down before a plateful of mutton and potatoes the attendant had just brought in. Gensor always marveled at Cadorna’s appetite. Nearly every time he came to see the man, he seemed to be sitting down for a meal or a snack, yet somehow he remained as lean as a lizard.

  Almost anyone who spent any time with Cadorna, including Gensor, could not help but be aware that the man had a busy social and political agenda, and while Gensor didn’t care for Cadorna on a personal basis, he knew he was a man to watch.

  “What is it, Gensor?” demanded Cadorna. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Gensor smiled, deciding to assume that Cadorna was joking. “I thought it necessary to speak with you. An unusual trio is coming before you for judgment during your next session. There’s a tavern worker from the Laughing Goblin, a woman new to town, and a cleric of Tyr.”

  “So? Come to the point, will you, man?”

  Gensor interpreted the councilman’s impatience as posturing, something at which he excelled. Consequently, he took his time with the explanation. “I thought you should know that the tavern worker radiates a powerful but isolated magic.”

  “What do you mean ‘isolated’?” Cadorna set down his fork and leaned toward Gensor.

  “I mean it comes from his boots and must be the boots themselves or something he carrying in them. I’m sure he’s no magic-user.”

  “So he’s carrying a magical item,” Gensor stated. “That doesn’t seem particularly unusual.”

  “As I said, whatever it is, it’s very powerful. But at any rate, I wasn’t finished. The woman radiates magic like a beacon in the night. I have no way of knowing what items or power she has, but I’ve never received a stronger reading from my spell. The cleric is just what he seems. He has no magical devices on his person, save his holy symbol.” Gensor could almost see Cadorna’s mind at work. He was tempted to use a spell to detect the man’s thoughts but decided not to. He rather enjoyed watching Cadorna as his mind worked.

  “There is one other thing I wanted to menti
on. Apart from their magic, the three probably make up the most physically powerful trio I have ever seen. I think, under the circumstances, you may find these three useful.”

  “Thank you, Gensor,” Porphyrys Cadorna said thoughtfully. “Well done. You may go now.” He watched as the mage left, and then he allowed himself the pleasure of gloating over the possibilities. Technically, he should reserve judgment on a group such as this for the First Councilman and the Eighth—the first because of the magic attested to by the mage, and the latter because he was a Tyrian cleric and therefore presided over matters concerning the temple of Tyr.

  On the other hand, Cadorna mused, Gensor was right to point these three out to me. They certainly could do me some good. Some kind of a test is in order, and I think I know just what it should be. If they can survive the dangers of Sokol Keep, they may be worthy of some other tasks I have in mind….

  Cadorna savored the last bite of mutton. The cook had finally gotten the seasonings and cooking time right. Now, if he could only work on the potatoes … the sauce they had simmered in had boiled away to nothing, and the potatoes were dry and overdone.

  When the attendant came in to pick up the dishes, Cadorna suggested he tell the cook to start learning more quickly if he didn’t want to be replaced.

  “Yes, Honorable Tenth Councilman.” The attendant quickly wiped off the table and turned to leave with Cadorna’s dirty dishes.

  “Wait, boy. How many cases for review this session?” asked Cadorna.

  “Two, I believe, sir. The watch warden would know for sure.”

  “Obviously he would know, but he’s not here, is he? It wouldn’t hurt for you to pay attention to such details, would it?” Cadorna snapped. “In any case, remind the watch warden that I like to have spectators present. Have him admit any who are waiting and drum up a few more if he has to. I’ll be ready to start the next session in fifteen minutes.”