Pool of Twilight

by James M. Ward

  There was nothing for Daile to do but follow.

  An hour later found the three of them gathered around a stout oaken table in the center of the stone-walled keep. Daile had cleared away the supper dishes and poured three steaming mugs of mulled wine. She tentatively handed a mug to Gamaliel. He accepted it with a wordless nod. She tried to smile, but the expression faltered badly. Hurriedly she sat down and hid her face behind her own mug. The green-eyed barbarian made her dreadfully uncomfortable, mostly because she had nearly shot him with her magical bow.

  Gamaliel had told them his reason for coming in short, terse sentences. The message was simple. Kern, the son of Ren’s best friends, was about to set off on a quest to find the lost Hammer of Tyr. But Gamaliel’s mistress, the sorceress Evaine, had learned that a mysterious, evil wizard also sought the hammer and was drawing power from a magical pool. This was not the first time Daile had heard of the dreaded pools. She knew that Ren had helped to destroy two of them many years ago.

  “The pool is hidden somewhere in the Dragonspine Mountains,” Gamaliel finished. The firelight played across his sharp, striking features. “Evaine has need of your knowledge and experience. You will return with me.”

  Ren’s eyes flashed angrily. Then suddenly he let out a guffaw, slapping his knee. “You never did bandy words, Gamaliel. I don’t know why I should expect you to now.”

  Daile held her breath, watching the two men closely. She knew from stories that Ren and the barbarian had not cared for each other at their first meeting. But over the years, their mutual respect had drawn them into a grudging sort of friendship.

  “All right,” Ren grumbled. “Winter’s coming on, and the gods know I’d rather spend it drinking ale by a fire than traipsing about the countryside. But I’ll go if Evaine needs me.”

  Daile’s spirit soared, but she did her best to contain her excitement. If she played her cards right, maybe, just maybe, her father would let her come along on this promising adventure.

  “Good,” was Gamaliel’s only reply. He drained his mug of wine. The barbarian looked around the small, tidy room then. “Tell me, Ren. Where is the druidess, Ciela?”

  Ren stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “I’ve got to chop some more wood for the fire,” he murmured, as if he had not heard the barbarian’s question. He headed out into the cold, moonlit night.

  Gamaliel watched him go, then turned to regard Daile. “Have I said something wrong?”

  Daile stood to ladle more mulled wine for the barbarian. “You couldn’t have known,” she said sadly, sitting back down. “My mother—Ciela—died two winters ago.” She looked around the keep. Everywhere there were still signs of the gentle druid woman: a chair she had fashioned of willow branches magically wended together, a wreath of holly that stayed perpetually green hanging above the mantel, a beautifully polished walking staff she had always taken with her on her long walks through the forest. Daile hung her head, her short red-gold hair shining in the firelight. She wondered that her mother’s death could hurt so much after all this time.

  “You miss her,” Gamaliel said in his oddly matter-of-fact voice. “That is well.”

  “How so?” Daile found herself asking.

  “It means that she was worth knowing.”

  Daile felt her heart strangely buoyed by Gamaliel’s simple words. She smiled at him gratefully.

  Abruptly the iron-banded door swung open, and Ren stepped through. He wasn’t carrying any firewood, but Daile chose not to mention this obvious fact. “Be ready to leave at dawn,” Ren told Gamaliel gruffly. “And Daile …”

  She sighed. “I know, Father. I’ll repair the chinks in the walls while you’re away.”

  “Oh, really?” Ren stroked his beard with a mischievous expression. “Well, all right, Daile, if you really want to. Of course, I was hoping you’d come with me on this particular journey, but I do know how much you enjoy patching the walls with mud.”

  Daile’s heart leaped. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. She let out a whoop of joy and sprang up to give her father a hug. “I love you!” she exclaimed, kissing his bearded cheek for emphasis.

  Ren grinned at Gamaliel. “Sometimes having a daughter is almost worth the trouble.”

  “So it seems,” the barbarian observed.

  8

  Allies New and Old

  It was verging on dusk when Kern and Listle rode through the unguarded Death Gates and into the dank, murky streets of the city. The fog and rain did nothing to conceal Phlan’s decay. If anything, the dreary elements emphasized the squalor and filth. The cold rain was gritty and acrid with soot, streaking all the city’s buildings with dark, leprous stains. It was hard to tell which of the heaps in the gutters were piles of refuse and which were bloated, rat-gnawed corpses. All smelled vile. The loud rain did nothing to mask the curses, screams, and wicked laughter that drifted down from dimly lit windows.

  Kern’s spirits, so high after gaining the enchanted silver and steel warhammer, instantly plummeted. Even if he did manage to recover the Hammer of Tyr, he wondered if he could do it in time to save the fast deteriorating city.

  The young warrior and elf rode into a desolate square. Once the marble fountain in its center had bubbled with clear, sweet water. Now black sludge oozed from the urn clasped by a stone cherub. The liquid gurgled sickeningly into the fountain’s half-full basin. So much for watering the horses here, Kern thought glumly. He swung his palfrey in the direction of Denlor’s Tower.

  Pounding hoofbeats shattered the air.

  Wide-eyed, Kern whirled his mount around. Listle did likewise with her dapple gray.

  Both stared as a huge knight mounted on a coal-black charger thundered into the square.

  The knight was clad in armor of purest jet, the oval of his shield as dark as a starless sky. His face was concealed by a visor, two crimson points of light glowing hungrily behind the narrow eye slit. Instead of a feathered plume, a gout of livid scarlet flame flickered atop the black knight’s helm. The dark rider’s onyx charger snorted crimson fire, and sulfurous smoke blasted out of flaring nostrils. Brilliant sparks flew from hooves that shattered cobblestones with every stride.

  The black knight lowered his steel-tipped lance, digging cruelly barbed spurs into the charger’s flanks. The horse let out a bloodcurdling sound as it leaped into a gallop. The black knight intended to run Kern through.

  There was no time to consider options.

  Kern dove out of the saddle. He hit the grimy cobbles hard and rolled, ignoring the flash of pain in his shoulder. The crushing hooves of the onyx charger passed so close, flying sparks left pinprick burns on Kern’s skin.

  Breathless, he staggered to his feet. The charger’s momentum had carried it to the opposite side of the square, but already the black knight was wheeling the massive horse around.

  “Listle, ride for the tower!” he shouted. The elf had guided her mount behind the scant protection of the marble fountain.

  “What? And leave you to have all the fun?” she shouted back.

  Kern cursed under his breath. Why didn’t she ever do anything he told her to do? The black knight lowered his lance again, ready for another charge. Kern looked wildly about for cover, but there was nothing close by to do him any good. He made a pathetically easy target, standing there in the middle of the empty square.

  “You don’t suppose this is just another one of Primul’s tests?” he called out to the elf hopefully.

  “No,” Listle snapped. “I don’t.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Kern gulped.

  The black knight dug in his spurs again, his crimson eyes glowing murderously. Blood streamed darkly down the charger’s flanks as it lunged forward; its hoofbeats rent the air.

  Deliberately, Kern reached for the steel and silver hammer at his belt. He gripped it firmly in both hands and raised it above his head, planting his feet on the slimy street. If he tried to run, his foe would simply skewer him in the back. He
tensed his muscles, waiting for the right moment to hurl his hammer.

  “Kern, no!” Listle screamed.

  Abruptly a wall of searing fire ignited before the knight. Even from a distance, Kern could feel the scorching heat.

  “Take that!” Listle cried.

  The onyx charger didn’t so much as pause. It galloped straight through the blazing barrier. The magical wall burst apart in a spray of harmless sparks, revealing itself as an illusion. The knight did not flinch. He lowered the tip of his lance. The steed charged.

  Kern tensed, waiting … waiting for the precise moment in which to hurl the warhammer.

  He never got the chance.

  A streak of lightning crackled out of nowhere, striking the black knight.

  The midnight charger reared up on its hind legs with a terrible whinny. Tendrils of magical energy crept up the knight’s armor, snaking into the visor’s eye slit. The lance burst asunder. The knight clenched a fist, letting out a horrible scream.

  Another bolt of magical lightning exploded against the black knight’s breastplate. This time Kern could discern its source—it came from the shadowed mouth of an alley on the edge of the square.

  The charger reared again, then suddenly dissipated in a cloud of acrid smoke. The knight crashed to the cobbles and lay still. The flaming plume atop his helm guttered and died out. A few last sparks of magical energy skittered across his armor.

  Cautiously Kern approached the fallen knight. With the toe of his boot, he tapped the scorched breastplate. A thin wisp of yellow smoke drifted out of the visor’s eye slit. That was all.

  “I think he’s dead,” Kern said grimly, returning the magical hammer to his belt.

  “Oh? And what gave you that bright idea?” Listle said in a wan attempt at a jest. She couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Oh, he’s well and truly dead,” a rich, musical voice interjected.

  Kern and Listle turned in surprise. A woman stepped from the dim arch of an alleyway.

  She was beautiful. Her eyes and hair were a deep, dark color that seemed to glow with radiance. Her skin had a smooth, coppery sheen to it, and her features were finely wrought, almost aristocratic. She was obviously a wizard of some sort, but the white full-length robe she wore was different from the shapeless utilitarian smocks kindly old sorcerers favored. The shimmering cloth was diaphanous and slightly translucent in the fading daylight, hinting at an alluring shape underneath.

  The woman walked fluidly toward Kern and Listle. The elf eyed her warily, but Kern offered a friendly smile.

  “Are you hurt, good paladin?” the mysterious wizard asked kindly, her voice concerned.

  “No, we’re all right. Thanks to your spell, that is.” Kern did his best to sound noble. She had called him paladin! He resisted the urge to shoot a smug glance at Listle. “Your intervention came just in time.”

  “Of course, we were doing just fine on our own,” Listle noted sullenly.

  “Of course,” the wizard agreed, nodding graciously in Listle’s direction.

  Kern frowned at the elf. “But the help was welcome all the same,” he added pointedly, smoothing over Listle’s rude remark. Couldn’t she even be civil to a stranger who had just saved their lives? Sometimes the elf infuriated Kern.

  “I’m Kern Desanea,” he ventured, “and this is Listle Onopordum.”

  The wizard held out a graceful hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Kern gripped the proffered hand and gave it an awkward shake. A slightly bemused expression crossed the wizard’s face.

  “I don’t know how we can repay you for your help …” he said, hesitating gallantly, “but if there’s anything we can do, you have only to ask.”

  “There’s no need for repayment,” the wizard replied with a dazzling smile. “Though it was a happy accident that I decided to journey all the way to Phlan this evening. I have been traveling south these last few days, from the Dragonspine Mountains. I intended to make camp north of the city this afternoon, but when it began to rain, I decided to push on. I’m glad now that I did.” She cast a glance at the fallen knight. “Do you know who that villain was? Or why he might have had cause to attack you?”

  “Something tells me it has to do with the quest I’m setting off on tomorrow.”

  “Quest?” the wizard asked.

  “I’ll be journeying in search of a holy relic, the Hammer of Tyr.”

  “A holy relic? That sounds like a terribly important task.” Suddenly the wizard looked crestfallen. “And I suppose that means you wouldn’t be able to … Oh, but never mind.”

  “What is it?” Kern asked.

  “It’s nothing, really …”

  “Tell me,” he insisted gently.

  She hesitated, her expression unsure, then shrugged. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you why I came to Phlan. I was hoping to find adventurers who might be willing to journey back to the Dragonspine Mountains with me. That’s where my tower is. You see, I’m a wild mage. I learned magic from an old hermit rather than in a formal school in one of the cities on the Moonsea. But now the valley where my tower stands has been overrun by a band of gnolls. They …” She sighed deeply. “They killed my mentor. I suppose I ought to leave the valley, but it’s always been my home. I can’t just abandon it to those awful gnolls. Unfortunately, the monsters are too many for me to fight alone. So I came here, hoping to hire a few able warriors such as yourself to help me.” She smiled briskly. “But you’re busy, I can see, so I’ll leave you to your—”

  “Stop right there,” Kern ordered. She gazed at him in evident surprise. “We owe you a great deal for what you did here. Now, I’m not certain how long my quest for the hammer will take, but you have my solemn promise that, as soon as my job is completed, I’ll journey to your place in the mountains to teach those gnolls a lesson.”

  Listle rolled her eyes. “Oh, brother,” she muttered. Preoccupied as he was with his own bold pronouncements, Kern did not hear her.

  The wild mage chewed her lip delicately. Abruptly she laughed. “That is certainly kind of you, paladin. In return, I volunteer to accompany you on your journey, to help you find this hammer you’re so terribly interested in. That way I can be certain you’ll return in good enough health to be of some assistance to me. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough!” Kern agreed with a grin.

  As they discussed the details, Kern felt his spirits rising. Tymora, Lady of Fortune, was smiling on him this evening, that was for certain. The mage promised to show up at the door of Denlor’s Tower at dawn, and Kern and Listle bid her farewell.

  “Wait a minute,” Kern said, pausing as he and Listle turned to ride from the square. “We don’t even know your name.”

  A smile glistened on the wild mage’s copper-tinted lips.

  “Sirana,” she said in her rich, musical voice. “My name is Sirana.”

  Listle and Kern spoke little on the way back to Denlor’s Tower. They unsaddled their horses in the courtyard and went inside. The tower’s extensive magical defenses—first created by the mage Denlor and enhanced by Shal—sensed their identities and so permitted them to pass unharmed. Had they been uninvited strangers, the invisible aura woven around the tower would have incinerated them.

  They found Tarl high in the tower, sitting by Shal’s side in a darkened room. Listle lit a candle against the night, but its pale light did little to lift the gloom of the place.

  “How is she, Father?” Kern asked quietly.

  The big-shouldered cleric drew in a deep breath. “No better, I’m afraid. And perhaps worse. Anton was here earlier. He cast a spell of healing on her, but like the others, it had little effect. Her spirit was too far from her body when she was struck down. Anton believes that her spirit is lost, or too weak to return.” Tarl rubbed a hand wearily across his brow. “Only the Hammer of Tyr has the power to bring Shal’s spirit back to us.”

  Kern gripped his father’s hand tightly. Without her spirit, Shal’s body would conti
nue to waste away. Eventually there would be nothing left but an empty husk. But that won’t happen, Kern thought fiercely, not if I can do something about it.

  “Now, Kern,” Tarl said, a note of cheer in his voice. “I can just make out a silver and green glow hovering at your side. Did you find a magical hammer at the green elf’s?”

  Kern nodded, grinning despite himself. They left Shal alone then, to sleep in peace. The two men went downstairs to talk by the fire. Listle ascended to Shal’s laboratory, intent on studying her spellbook. But try as she might, she simply couldn’t concentrate. There was too much on her mind. And in her heart.

  She closed her silvery eyes and suddenly could see Primul’s glistening battle-axe descending again in its fatal arc. She shuddered at the memory. She had been so afraid. If Kern had flinched … if Primul hadn’t stopped his swing at the last second … A cold tightness filled her chest. It was a sensation she had never felt before, not until that moment when she had thought she might lose Kern.

  She opened her eyes, biting her lip fiercely.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Listle Onopordum,” she muttered angrily to herself. “Other elves—other beings—can feel like this. But not you. Don’t fool yourself into thinking like that, not even for a moment.”

  A spark of light flared briefly inside the ruby pendant at her throat, but she did not notice. With great dint of will, she turned her mind to other, more important matters.

  The wild mage, Sirana.

  There was something about the female wizard that Listle didn’t like, not least of all the way she had practically thrown herself at Kern.

  Listle went over the conversation with Sirana a dozen times in her head, but could find nothing about it to prove her suspicions about the wild mage. If only she could talk to Shal about her, but Shal was deathly ill. Listle sighed. Finally, she turned to her spellbook, burying her nose in its pages.

  She was just snuffing out the candle when a thought struck her.

  Who in her right mind, Listle wondered, would journey from the frigid heights of the Dragonspine Mountains clad only in a flimsy robe of white gauze?