Pool of Radiance

by James M. Ward

  The wizard bellowed in rage and pain and raised his hands skyward to draw new energy from the churning gray clouds above. Shal recognized the gesticulations of a Weather Control spell and fought with all her newfound skills to turn the ferocious winds Yarash was creating back in his direction. Daylight disappeared as tornado fought cyclone for space in the sky and wizard strove against wizard. Shal seemed to thrive on the raw power that surged through her body in the exchange. With Cerulean’s mental aid, she fought to maintain the precious concentration needed to hold back the magical winds. At the same time, Shal brandished the Staff of Power once again. Yarash released the winds and leveled his hands toward Shal. With one word, even as Shal spoke the command to activate the staff once more, he let loose a force of energy that ripped the Staff of Power from her hands. In the same instant that the staff’s second lightning bolt exploded against Yarash’s chest, silhouetting the wizard’s bones through his robes and skin in its brilliance, the staff burst like a piece of crystal, sending wood fragments flying in all directions.

  “The staff!” Shal shouted, reaching out desperately toward where she had last seen it. Before she could think to try the Wand of Wonder or a magical spell, Yarash vanished, leaving what was left of his tornado to be devoured by Shal’s. Within moments, the unnatural winds collided, lost most of their magical force, and drifted off to the north. The quiet that ensued was uncanny. Ren and Tarl still stood nearby, their mouths agape with awe over the display of power they had just witnessed.

  Shal remained tense and her muscles taut as spent energy dissipated through her body. Cerulean’s color faded rapidly, an inadvertent barometer of the forces dispelling through the air all around them. Time passed unreckoned before Shal finally broke the eerie peace. “He lives yet. He teleported himself to safety.”

  Shal’s words jarred the two men from their stunned silence. Tarl rushed to Shal and wrapped his arms around her. The big woman’s muscular body went completely limp, and Tarl could only slow her collapse to the ground.

  “I’ve—I’ve never seen anything quite like that,” Ren said simply. “Will she be okay?” Ren looked to Tarl, and in his eyes he could see the fear that blanketed his friend’s face. “Can you help her?”

  “I—I don’t know.” Tarl responded numbly, and he shook his head. “My god, she’s powerful! … But even as strong as she is, her body wasn’t ready for that kind of expenditure of energy.”

  He closed his hands around both of hers and uttered a prayer of restoration and rejuvenation. In moments, he could feel a pulse of warmth and renewed strength building in Shal’s exhausted body. As with the other times he had healed Shal, he was nearly overwhelmed by the bond that flowed between them. He felt as though he were only a whisper away from sensing all of her emotions, and for the first time, he was certain that she shared the bond. When she opened her eyes and stared directly at him, he knew she did.

  “Are you okay?” asked Ren, stooping down beside Shal.

  She nodded, and he cuffed her gently on the shoulder. “I don’t ever want to be on the other side of a fight with you, woman. I never felt so helpless in all my life. My swords and daggers could’ve been butter knives for all the good they would’ve done me against you or Yarash.”

  Shal sat bolt upright. “We’ve got to find him! He won’t stop making those creatures, those abominations. He’s obsessed. It’s the generation of those perverse creatures that pollutes the river, and he thrives on their creation. I’m no mind reader, but during the battle, I could feel his presence, his essence. He’s crazy—completely chaotic. And his obsession doesn’t end with the Stojanow River.”

  “Can you get us out to the island?” Ren asked. “I know you’ve probably already used your quota of magic for at least the next week, but—”

  “For a month or more, I think,” interrupted Shal. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  Tarl reached out and gently helped her to her feet. “Take your time,” he said.

  Still shaky, Shal slowly walked over and patted Cerulean. “I don’t think I’d have come through that without you, big fella. Thanks.”

  Cerulean stamped one hoof but kept his thoughts to himself until Shal held out the Cloth of Many Pockets.

  I’ll stay right here, thank you! Cerulean sniffed.

  “No, please. I have an idea. I know I don’t have the strength to teleport all of us to the island, but I believe I can teleport myself.”

  “You can’t go out there alone!” Ren and Tarl spoke as one.

  “Shush.” Shal waved her hand at the two. “Cerulean, you have to tell me something. Are you able to go in the cloth because you’re magical, or can anybody do it?”

  It has nothing to do with me, Mistress, though it does take a certain amount of concentration.

  “How’s that?”

  I could walk right up to that cloth and bump into it. Unless I was planning to go inside, I wouldn’t. I have to kind of get myself prepared for it—mentally, I mean. I dislike going in there, so I always pretend I’m going to land so hard in there that I’ll rip the pocket, and then I won’t have to do it anymore. Do you follow me?

  “Yes … and I think it’ll work,” Shal said aloud.

  “What?” the two men exclaimed together.

  “I don’t have the energy to transport all three of us across the river, but if the two of you can get inside the cloth with Cerulean, I think I can fly myself over.”

  Cerulean folded his ears down against his head and pawed the ground thoughtfully. Since you put it that way … Tell the two gentlemen to observe me closely. Be sure to explain what I just told you about getting prepared mentally.

  Without a sound, Cerulean leaped forward and poured into the cloth, where he immediately proceeded to expound on the virtues of a well-lit environment.

  Tarl and Ren both looked at Shal skeptically as she repeated Cerulean’s advice. Ren paused to collect his thoughts, then jumped toward Shal, but he stopped short before crashing into her, unconvinced that he could really pour himself into such a tiny space. Even Tarl, with his clerical skills, could not keep doubt from hindering his attempts to enter the cloth.

  “Enough!” said Shal. “I don’t know what I’ll have left when I face Yarash, but I’m going to cast a Shrink spell.”

  Neither Ren nor Tarl had any opportunity to object. A moment later, they were mere fractions of their former size. A gigantic Shal stooped over, picked them up, and deposited them in the cloth. Another moment later, they were all on their way to the sorcerer’s island with the aid of a Fly spell.

  On the shore of the island, Shal pulled Tarl out. The Shrink spell wore off moments later, and he was back to original size and standing beside her. “Boy, it sure is black in there!” he exclaimed.

  “So I’ve heard.” Shal said Ren’s name and reached for him, but nothing came within her grasp.

  “Ren? Can you hear me?” Shal said excitedly. “Cerulean, is he in there with you?”

  Suddenly the big man popped out of the cloth as if he had been shot from a gun. “By the gods, I’ve been to the Abyss and back! It’s blacker than the Pit in there, and it’s not all that easy to get out.”

  “Okay, okay! So it’s dark in there. Can we get on with this?” Shal vowed silently to get Cerulean a lantern to take with him for future stays in the dark folds of the cloth.

  To Ren’s keen senses, the smells of lightning and charred cloth were still recognizable. Set flush with the pyramid and barely discernible even up close was a teleport platform. A smudged footprint was the only telltale sign that made the surface of the platform visible. Ren pointed the teleport surface out to Shal and Tarl, then explained, “This should take us to him.”

  They took position on the platform together, and immediately found themselves inside what they had to assume was the dark interior of the pyramid. An empty hallway stretched before them, but Yarash was nowhere in sight. “He’s been here,” said Ren, sniffing, his keen eyes darting from side to side. They walked the length o
f the long corridor, Ren as alert as a fox to any sight, smell, or sound. They passed doorway after doorway, but Ren didn’t even pause. “There!” He pointed suddenly. “Another teleport platform!”

  Ren led the way, and three teleports and a walk upstairs later, they came upon Yarash, sitting against the corner of a room filled with books and ledgers, obviously his personal study. His robes were seared to his body, and his flesh was horribly burned, but he was still able to summon another contingent of fish-men. With no water, the strange creatures gasped for air, their malformed gills heaving and collapsing with such effort it seemed they would drop, but instead they crowded forward as their counterparts had, threatening the adventurers with their bulk and poison spittle. This time, there were no surprises. Shal, Tarl, and Ren went straight for the creatures’ oversized heads and gawking eyes. In moments, their flopping, twitching bodies and decapitated heads littered the floor. Shal knew the wizard’s paltry effort signaled his defeat, but she did not anticipate his next move.

  As the last of the creatures flopped and twitched on the floor in death, Yarash began to rant. “Killing my creations! All my research, gone! You can’t carve my brain! You won’t get my secrets! You’ll never get my secrets!” And before they could reach him, he had disemboweled himself with his own dagger.

  “Tyr and Tymorah!” Tarl pressed his hands against the spasming body to stop its grotesque twitching. “What do you suppose the sick fellow was thinking of?”

  “It looks to me like the answer might be in those ledgers,” said Ren. He wasted no time getting started on a search of the sorcerer’s belongings. “Bloody divination!” he shouted as he rifled through one of the larger ledgers. “Look at these maps! He was going to try to contaminate the entire Moonsea and use those freaks of his to control things! He was sicker than—”

  “Cadorna,” said Shal, who had also started poring over the ledgers. “Yarash’s notes are thorough. Cadorna knew everything. Look at this! The councilman didn’t send us to check out a rumor or even to stop the pollution. He knew exactly where he was sending us. He did it to get the ioun stones.”

  Ren moved behind Shal and started reading over her shoulder. “Would you look at that? Yarash wasn’t even going to give the stones to Cadorna. The Lord of the Ruins had offered a higher price!” Ren stopped cold and then began reading aloud. “ ‘… I can’t imagine what all the fuss is over a couple of rocks. The dragon has dispatched assassins to Waterdeep and beyond, looking for the stones, and now the councilman wants me to give them to him….’ ”

  Ren’s eyes were wide. “The Lord of the Ruins—he sent the assassin to kill Tempest!”

  Shal reached out and patted Ren’s arm soothingly. Then she pointed to an entry in another ledger and started reading it aloud. “ ‘Thank goodness Porphyrys has followed the instructions of the Lord of the Ruins this time and had those two interfering windbags killed. Between the red mage and that blue fellow, they were seriously depleting my supply of experimental stock….’ ” Shal could read no further.

  “I’ve seen enough!” she said. “I wanted vengeance. Now I can get it. I want Cadorna to pay for this. Between these writings and what the three of us know already, I think we can convince the First Councilman of his guilt.”

  “If we can’t,” said Tarl, helping Shal load the ledgers into the Cloth of Many Pockets, “there’s more than one bad apple on the council.”

  Outside, the pyramid still looked like a giant bauble protruding from the landscape, but Yarash’s abominable creations had ceased forever. The conduit that had pumped the vile byproduct of his unnatural magical creations into the Stojanow was still, and the last of the black sludge had begun its slow journey downriver to the wide expanses of the Moonsea.

  Valhingen Graveyard

  The trip back, without the mare, was slow, in places arduous. Even with Cerulean carrying all their equipment, it was taking the three nearly twice as long to return to the city as it had to travel to the sorcerer’s island. No one was complaining, though. In fact, all three of the companions were lost in thoughts of their own.

  Ren was thoroughly enjoying what was proving to be a quiet return journey. He realized that the victory against Yarash had been Shal’s, but as he watched the Stojanow’s waters begin to wash away the black poison from the sorcerer’s pyramid, he felt an unrivaled sense of achievement. He looked at the brown riverbanks and imagined what they would look like in another year, with healthy new grasses spreading across the now-barren earth and the first saplings poking their leaves above the ground. The recovery would be far from instantaneous, and the gray stumps would remain for years, ugly reminders of one man’s gross abuse against nature, but the healing growth would be a signature of hope.

  Ren realized that an entire lifetime of thieving in the city wouldn’t give him half the sense of purpose he’d felt on the missions to Thorn Island and the gnoll stronghold, and contributing to the purge of the Stojanow had done more for his spirit than any loot he had ever stolen as a thief.

  Ren was as ready as he would ever be to accompany Shal as she sought Cadorna’s punishment for the slaying of her mentor, and he had already made up his mind to ignore Tarl’s insistence that the young cleric face the vampire alone. But most of all, Ren was ready to face the Lord of the Ruins himself, whoever he was—the real murderer of Tempest.

  In this quiet interlude as the cleric and his companions hiked the length of the rejuvenating Stojanow, Tarl meditated on the messages he had received from his god when he met him in the innermost sanctuary of the temple. In the same moment in which he comprehended that his healing powers would be greatly enhanced by the ioun stone, Tarl had also learned that Anton could not possibly recover until the master of the word embedded in his forehead was banished from this plane. The tremendous joy he’d felt when he healed Shal was nearly overshadowed by the fact that, try as he might, he could not heal Anton. Neither would Tarl recover the Hammer of Tyr and avenge the deaths of his brothers until he saw the destruction of the beast that ruled over the graveyard.

  Tarl’s faith had carried him through Sokol Keep, and it had driven him through the gnoll encampment. He wanted very much to believe that Tyr would see fit to aid him against the vampire, but the memories of the sounds—the soul-rending shrieks of the horses and the agonized screams of his dying brothers—challenged his faith over and over again. Tarl had never known such fear, and as much as he wanted to destroy the vampire and its minions, he was also terrified of facing them.

  Shal was still thinking about her confrontation with Yarash. The terror she had felt initially at confronting the powerful sorcerer had turned to exhilaration as her mastery of the weather challenged his and she was able to match him spell for spell in magical combat. She understood now that she had failed at her Weather spells earlier simply because it had not been important enough for her to succeed. She had learned the invaluable lesson that a spell’s intensity could be magnified many times over by the attitude of the caster. It had not been until she was able to channel her own raw fear and use it against Yarash that her power over the cyclone had become complete and she was able to cast spell after spell in rapid succession.

  The fact that the Staff of Power was gone was just beginning to sink in. Without the staff for protection, Shal could no longer think of spell memorization as routine or idle. If she had faced Yarash without the staff, she would have been forced to cast a Lightning Bolt spell of her own. Her life and the lives of her friends would have depended on the spell’s success. She could never again afford to look at her magical studies as mere academic exercises. Every time she committed a new spell to memory, it would be in preparation—preparation to do whatever necessary to see to the conviction of Porphyrys Cadorna, preparation to aid Tarl in his quest at Valhingen Graveyard, and preparation to help Ren as he sought the beast responsible for the murder of Tempest.

  They waited near the mouth of the Stojanow for a full day before the ferry finally arrived. All three of them felt relief when, tw
o hours later, the small sailing vessel finally approached the docks of Phlan. Though Shal, Ren, and Tarl each called another place home, Civilized Phlan had become a home between homes for all of them, and the sight of the sturdy walls surrounding the civilized city was comforting. None of the three particularly sought fame or recognition, but they knew that they would soon receive the accolades of the city and the town council for their success in halting the pollution of the Stojanow River. The proof of their deed would be evident within a matter of days as fresh, untainted water would wash the last of the sorcerer’s black sludge into the Moonsea, where it would be diluted millions of times over, and finally come to rest deep in the great body of water.

  As the ship’s captain maneuvered his vessel closer to the docks, Ren nudged Tarl and Shal and pointed toward the shore. A row of soldiers stood at ten-pace intervals the length of the shoreline and the docks. All were identically outfitted in black, with chain mail vests depicting an archetypal demon’s eye on a red crest. “The Black Watch,” observed Ren. “Cadorna must’ve convinced the council to replace the town guards with them.”

  “Why such heavy protection along the docks?” asked Shal.

  Ren shrugged. “There’s probably been quite an influx of riffraff since word got around that two new sections of Civilized Phlan have been opened up recently.”

  The captain, who also served as crew, hurried back and forth as he first prepared the moorings on the port bow and stern, then expertly guided the ferry in toward the longest of the harbor’s piers. The four soldiers closest to the ferry approached hurriedly and made motions as if to help with the moorings, but just as the small ferry eased in alongside the dock, one of the four heavily armed soldiers shouted, “By order of Porphyrys Cadorna, First Councilman of the City of Phlan, prepare to boarded!”