Pools of Darkness

by James M. Ward

  “I don’t get it,” Jarad complained. “The rain stopped, so you’re sounding the alarm?”

  The old warrior answered without disrupting his loading and firing rhythm. “I’ll explain later. Stick with me, kid. We’re in for something ugly.”

  In the unnatural silence, the sound of boots on the wet stone announced Ston’s return. Throwing off his poncho, he reached for a crossbow and started firing onto the field. “The word is out. The militia’s up in full force.”

  Tulen sighed in relief and fired the last bolt from the bucket. The men hauled out three pails of normal bolts, loaded their weapons, and peered over the wall, waiting.

  In the wizard’s tower, husband and wife lay wrapped in warm blankets and each other. Tarl could feel Shal’s pounding pulse, but she was calmer than before.

  “Tarl, we’ve seen a lot of adventure in our lives, but are you ever unhappy that we never had children?”

  The cleric was taken aback. This subject had a way of popping up when he was least prepared. He tried to soothe Shal although he wasn’t sure of his own feelings. “If the gods want us to have children, we’ll have children.”

  “But we—”

  “Shhh. Don’t think about it right now. You need to relax and try to sleep.” Shal opened her mouth, but Tarl pressed a finger to her lips. The wizard gave up and settled into his arms.

  The tower suddenly shook as a colossal lightning bolt struck the center of Phlan. “Did you feel that?” Tarl asked. “Really, my love—”

  “Shut up, Tarl! Let me out of bed!” Shal whipped back the blankets, jumped to her feet, and paced over to a wardrobe. “Oh gods, something horrible has happened. I just know it. Tarl, get dressed. We have to go outside.” The sorceress was already tugging a robe over her head. The cleric blinked at her, confused.

  “Shal, it’s all right. It’s only the storm.”

  “It’s not the storm! Something dire has happened. I can sense it. Please, please put some clothes on. We have to go out. Hurry!”

  Tarl shambled over to his wife, whose eyes were filling with tears. “It’s alright, sweetheart. I believe you. We’ll go out.” He yanked on breeches and a tunic and pulled on a pair of boots. Reaching for a heavy warhammer, he took his wife’s hand and led the way down the stairs.

  “Listen,” she said ominously. “The rain stopped.”

  Phlan’s walls were a flurry of motion. Troops moved through drills they had practiced dozens of times. All around the city walls, the fields and grasslands were dotted with magical lights that would betray the approach of any enemy. Tar-covered logs stood ready to be lighted and dropped on foot soldiers who might attempt to climb the wall. Baskets of sharp caltrops were scattered onto the ground, waiting to pierce the feet of advancing troops. Catapult teams loaded and cranked down enormous buckets of rock without waiting to catch first sight of the enemy.

  “Hssst. Ston! See anything?” Tulen’s voice was a gravelly whisper.

  “Nothin’. That’s what scares me.”

  “Uh … gentlemen,” Jarad stammered. “Where did the moon go?”

  “What?”

  “The moon. It’s gone. It was hard to see anyway—what with the storm and all—but the clouds have broken and, uh, it’s completely gone.”

  “He’s right, Tulen. Look up. No moon. No clouds. Whooo, I’ve got a baaaaad feeling about this.”

  “Steady yerselves, men. Yer as nervous as bridegrooms. We’re tougher than anything that’s out there.”

  “Ha!” Ston spat. “Sorcery! I know it is. I can feel it. Give me critters to fight, and I’m happy. Orcs, skeletons, even a dragon or two—I’ll battle ’em—but keep that magic stuff away. It’s too creepy. Why, I remember—”

  “Shush!” Tulen ordered. “Listen!”

  As the men squinted over the wall, hundreds of soldiers materialized within the circle of lights. The soldiers did not ride out of the darkness; instead, they sprang up as if growing from the grass itself.

  “I knew it! I told you! Sorcery!” Ston gurgled.

  “Shut up and start firing!” Tulen punched his friend. “We’ve been in worse!” Already, two bolts had whooshed out of Tulen’s crossbow.

  Farther down the wall stood the city’s largest gates. Named the Death Gates by Phlan’s citizens in honor of the thousands of monsters and mercenaries who had died there over the years, they were usually the hub of any battle.

  As enemy warriors swarmed toward the walls, they were greeted by barrels of hot oil pouring down from above. As the liquid spread, wizards flew high out of reach of the attackers, casting spells to ignite the oil. Blazes flared; grass, walls, and soldiers were caught in the flames. The enemy troops were driven back by the intense heat.

  The volley of crossbow fire never ceased. As more attackers arrived, more and more of the enemy fell to the expert aim of Phlan’s crossbowmen.

  When the flames along the wall died, the enemy renewed its press. The city’s heavy artillery teams ignited the tar-coated logs and dropped them over the wall. Dozens of enemies were crushed and burned, and dozens more were turned back.

  Far from the field of battle, far from danger, the wizard who commanded the enemy forces watched the assault. He was gleeful—an odd thing since his troops were dying in great numbers and his forces had not yet struck a telling blow. The denizens of Phlan did not suspect the worst: the wizard’s magic had stolen the entire city and dropped it into a cavern deep below his tower. Bane would be pleased. The wizard would gain more power than he ever dreamed possible.

  It only remained to conquer Phlan’s citizens and strip away their souls using the pool of darkness. He assumed those tasks were to be the easiest parts of his plot.

  His troops were formidable. Humans were shoulder to shoulder with pig-faced orcs. Scaly lizard men fought alongside bug-eyed goblins and hobgoblins. Every soldier was tough and battle-hardened. They had the proper respect for their leader, a Red Wizard from the faraway land of Thay. The troops had been offered an enormous amount of gold for an easy mission. In addition to their payment, they would be allowed any loot they could carry away.

  The wizard pounded a fist. “Where are my fiends?”

  Instantly a black mist formed next to the angry sorcerer. Within moments, it writhed and coalesced into a twelve-foot-tall ebony horror, whose rumbling voice startled the wizard. “Your bidding, Lord Marcus?”

  The Red Wizard glared at his servant. “We’re looking bad out there!” he hissed. “Summon your minions and get busy! Those weaklings can’t stand up to the power of a pit fiend and his hellish followers. Your unit alone should scare them into surrender! Now go!” Marcus pounded his fist again. His face flushed crimson to match his robes.

  The winged monstrosity nodded at its master. It flexed its banded muscles and stretched its arms and feet, revealing sharp talons larger than a man’s hand. Green ooze dripped from two tusks protruding from the beast’s mouth. As the liquid splashed to the ground, wisps of smoke arose from the blackened earth. Although the creature resembled a gargoyle, anyone could see that its power was a hundredfold greater. The monster’s crusty skin creaked and scraped as it called out for its minions. Black sparks leaped from its body.

  One by one, other black forms from the bowels of the Nine Hells arrived. Foul clouds of mist formed around the pit fiend, swirling into solid forms. Dwarfed by their master, the three-foot-tall beasts were nonetheless horrifying to behold. Vaguely human in shape, each had spiky wings and a tail. The monsters hopped about on sharply taloned feet as a smell like charred flesh filled the air. Each of the twelve creatures carried a sharpened black trident. The mob slobbered and hissed in anticipation of the impending onslaught.

  The Red Wizard’s rage turned to a gloat. “Spinagons! What fine creatures! These beasts will terrify the puny mortals! Now go! My prize will be the souls of Phlan, and I do not intend to wait!” Marcus’s eyes blazed, and he waved a hand at the hideous assembly. The pit fiend flapped its wings and lifted off the ground, its minions
following closely.

  The defenders of Phlan were turning back their attackers with ease. Bodies piled up outside the walls, while less than a dozen city guards had been pronounced dead by the priests. Many of Phlan’s wounded were healed by clerics and soon returned to their posts. Those who were seriously injured were carried to churches that stood ready to serve as infirmaries.

  Catapult teams tirelessly fired and reloaded their weapons. Archers delivered a constant stream of arrows into the charging enemies. Wizards arrived from all over the city and hovered high above the battle, casting spells of fire, lightning, ice, and magical energy. The hobgoblin troops in the enemy forces broke ranks and fled the field.

  At the Death Gates, cries of triumph rose over the clash of battle and carried down the walls.

  “Tarl’s come!”

  “Master Tarl is here to help save the city!”

  “Tarl is fighting at the Death Gates!”

  The cleric blushed at the accolades and turned to his wife. “By the gods, when you’re right, you’re right! We’ve got trouble! Go find yourself a good spot and rain purple death on whatever’s out there!” He reached up to kiss Shal’s cheek. His wife magically elevated to join the other wizards high above.

  Heading toward the stairs leading to the top of the wall, Tarl paused. “Blast it. Brother Anton took the Holy Warhammer of Tyr to the Ceremony of Spring, and I sure could use it now. But this one will have to do.” Gripping his hammer, he charged up the stairs. Nearing the top, a glowing blue warhammer appeared in his hand, replacing the one that had been there only moments before. “What? I’m the only one who can summon this weapon, but I didn’t call for it yet. At least, I don’t think I called for it.” Looking at the familiar weapon, Tarl shrugged. “Well, you’re here now! Let’s make Tyr proud!” The cleric of the god of justice dove into the fray.

  The clash and fury of battle was so great that most defenders didn’t notice a faint glowing mist forming high above the city. The wizards were the first to see it. Half a dozen spells were cast at it to discern its nature.

  The mist appeared to have no other purpose than to provide light. As the cloud grew, its intensity increased until the city was lit as brightly as if it were midafternoon. Puzzling as that was, the spellcasters continued to shower spells down on the attackers. Then one of the sorcerers far out over the field shouted a cry of alarm.

  In the distance, thirteen black spots appeared high in the air. As they closed in, flapping wings could be detected. A new cry arose from many of the wizards. “Fiends! There are fiends heading this way!” The sorcerers flew toward each other and arrayed themselves into a gigantic sphere, each facing outward. In this formation, they could attack the beasts from any angle of approach.

  Facing the front of the battle, Shal aimed four purple lightning bolts toward the attack force. The wizards around her continued to rain their own magic onto the enemy. In Phlan, it was common for wizards to adopt a particular hue to use as a magical signature, so streaks of blue, yellow, orange, pink, and red streamed from the assembled mages in a beautiful but deadly display.

  Below, on the city’s wall, Ston hollered at his friend. “Lookee, Tulen! Purple magic! Lady Shal has arrived, and she’s blastin’ those critters!” The ancient warrior fairly hopped with excitement.

  “I thought you hated sorcery, you old goat!” Tulen chided.

  “Fool! Of course I hate it, but not when it’s on our side!” Ston chortled and fired his crossbow.

  “Lookee what else we got, Ston! Big trouble overhead!” The grizzled warrior pointed to the swarm of spinagons and their massive leader. “Time for some fancy shootin’! Pay attention, Jarad, me boy!”

  The oldtimers took aim, waiting for the creatures to approach. They stood perfectly still, fingers on triggers. At last the beasts drew near, and the men could release their missiles.

  Both bolts whizzed toward the monsters, scoring their marks. Instead of sinking deep into the black flesh, however, the bolts bounced off and tumbled to the ground. Other arrows, catapult loads, and hurled daggers found their targets but also careened away. The monsters didn’t so much as miss a wingflap and returned the favor by firing poisoned tail spikes at Phlan’s troops.

  As the leather-winged monsters flapped boldly toward the weakened defenders, a magical assault took shape, streaming toward the incoming horrors. Magical bolts of every size and color seared toward the unholy mob. A third of the energies fizzled uselessly away, but the remainder hissed and popped against the fiends in a rainbow of death. A purple streak blasted two spinagons, bowling them over and knocking them helplessly to the ground, where they exploded in a shower of cinders. A yellow and a blue streak each destroyed another spinagon. The mass of fiends broke formation and flapped around the sphere of wizards, hurling poisoned tail spikes. They bounced off the enormous shield of magical protection that surrounded the wizards and crumbled to dust.

  A quarter of an hour and dozens of spells later, the last of the spinagons tumbled to the ground. The pit fiend roared in anger, circling to retreat. Its minions had wounded some of the defenders, but this city was proving to be unusually tough. Half the citizens should have run in fear at the mere sight of the creatures from the Nine Hells. But even the fiends’ dreaded magical attacks had been deflected with little harm.

  The seething pit fiend flapped away from Phlan, back toward the waiting Marcus.

  Cries of victory erupted from the walls as the last monster flew away. The troops turned toward the more mundane battle with new energy.

  Moments later, the soldiers that remained on the battlefield also broke ranks and turned to run. Catapult loads and arrows followed them until the soldiers were beyond the perimeter of lighted crossbow bolts. The cheer that arose in Phlan was deafening.

  As the shouts subsided, Tarl looked slowly about, surveying the walls for damage. His mouth fell open as he was struck by the reality of what had occurred. The entire city of Phlan, walls and all, was in an impossibly huge cavern.

  “Look, Master Tarl! Someone has stolen the skies over Phlan!”

  The cleric took a deep breath. “No one has stolen our skies, friend. They’ve stolen us.”

  Shal settled out of the air to stand next to her husband, confirming his statement with a nod. Though their situation looked grim, both adventurers knew that the danger had only begun.

  Chilling Dreams

  One hundred miles to the north of the spot where Phlan had stood, a seasoned ranger camped in a tight grove of pine trees amid the violent gales and lightning. The warrior slept soundly despite the weather, but haunting images of danger played through his mind, causing him to toss and turn.

  “Shal! Look out!” The ranger sat up in the darkness, screaming, as lightning struck a nearby pine. “Tarl! There’s something—” He stopped as he realized that he didn’t know what he was about to say next. Rain sprayed through the evergreen branches and rolled off the canvas propped over the ranger’s bedroll.

  Three times in the last four weeks, Ren had dreamed the same nightmare. Now his head dropped into his hands, and he rubbed his forehead, as if clearing the images from his mind. His pulse thumped in his temples.

  Ren shook his head hard. Water spun off his hair in all directions. Despite the lean-to, he was wet from head to toe. The relentless wind drove the rain under every leaf and into every crevice.

  “Why do I keep having that dream?” Ren spoke aloud, even though no one was around to hear. Reaching for his sword, he scanned the trees and listened, alert for any passing orcs that may have heard his scream.

  Several tense moments went by, but no creatures approached. Satisfied, Ren arose in the darkness and packed his wet gear. Even the equipment inside his backpack was damp. The rain and storms hadn’t let up for over four weeks. The seasoned ranger wondered if he would ever dry out again.

  His mount, a huge war-horse named Stolen, shook its wet mane and flicked its tail. Then Stolen stood stoically as Ren loaded the saddlebags and patted the m
assive horse. “Stolen, old boy, it’s probably better that we’re awake. The orcs will be out, crawling these woods. Time to get busy hunting them.” As he swung onto the war-horse, he thought to himself, What a time to be having nightmares. Just when I’ve got a job to do.

  A little more than four weeks earlier, Ren had petitioned the council of Glister to settle a nearby valley. Like most rangers, Ren didn’t believe in the ownership of land. A person could settle the land, care for it, even drive out unwanted creatures. But the land would outlast anyone who might claim to own it. Ren merely asked for the right to live there undisturbed.

  After several long hours of verbal parrying and thrusting with Glister’s council, he had come away with an agreement. If Ren eliminated the bands of marauding orcs that terrorized the region, he would be awarded a charter to live in the valley in peace. The council had offered the ranger the use of Glister’s own troops, but Ren preferred to work alone. Now he trotted through the forest on his war-horse, quite alone and quite wet.

  Ren sighed as he thought of the Glister council. He had done his best to make a good impression. The ranger had walked into the chambers that morning in a suit of gleaming chain mail of fine elven craftsmanship. His magical daggers, called Left and Right, were visibly sticking out of his dragonskin boots. A two-handed long sword hung in its sheath across his back, and a shimmering elven cloak of displacing was draped over one arm. His gauntlets, equipment belt, and bracers, also made of dragon hide, were shining and well oiled. Standing six-foot-six, the ranger’s impressive equipment and his gray-peppered beard spoke volumes about his skills and experience. But if Ren was a man of action, he had always been a simple speaker. Looking back, the ranger wondered if his mission might have been easier if he had appeared slightly less capable.

  “Like the way I look now,” Ren muttered. His hair and beard were shaggy and plastered to his head by the rain. His elven chain mail was caked with mud, as were his dragonskin boots and gauntlets. Grass and pine needles clung to the mud and stuck to his wet leggings. Even the huge war-horse looked bedraggled. “Well, maybe the enemy will underestimate my fighting abilities,” he said half-heartedly. Stolen trotted through the trees.