Pool of Twilight

by James M. Ward

  Sirana balanced on the rocky edge. The turgid water lapped mere inches below her clawed feet.

  Come, sorceress. Is not vengeance worthwhile, whatever the cost?

  “Yes,” she whispered, the swirling flecks of twilight reflected in her blankly staring eyes. “I must have my vengeance.”

  Sirana plunged into the pool of twilight.

  She felt as if she were freezing into ice and burning to ashes all at once. The thick fluid dragged her body down. Sparks flashed in front of her eyes; the lack of oxygen seared her lungs. She clamped her mouth shut, fighting the urge to draw a breath. Oh, why had she done this foolish thing? Her consciousness began to grow faint.

  Finally she could stand it no longer. She opened her mouth, filling her lungs with the pool’s water in one horrible, shuddering breath.

  She was not drowning!

  She took another breath of the thick, metallic water, and another, and another. With each, she felt incredible energy pulsing through her veins, infusing every fiber of her being. The power she had experienced before was nothing compared to the primal magic she now felt coursing through her body, forging her anew into something awesome and terrible, into …

  … the guardian of the pool.

  Even as Sirana reveled in her new incarnation, the waters of the pool began to froth and bubble furiously. In a spray of shimmering foam, a huge creature burst forth from its waters and soared toward the heights of the cavern.

  “Free!” a wild, thunderous voice trumpeted. “After all these centuries, at last I am free!”

  The massive creature whirled about the cavern, stretching his midnight wings in ecstasy. The black dragon was a great, ancient beast armored with countless scales as hard and gleaming as onyx. The dragon’s name was Dusk, and in all the northlands of Faerun there was not an older or more powerful creature of his kind. A full two hundred feet from his horned snout to the spike-studded tip of his tail, there was strength enough in his claws to rend mountains to dust.

  The dragon alighted beside the pool. One of his black eyes shone in utter satisfaction, while the other was dim and clouded, blinded by an ancient but not forgotten wound. That foolish half-fiend, Sirana, had finally yielded to the temptation the dragon had dangled before her. Now she would be the pool’s guardian, trapped in its silvery waters. Now Dusk would do what Sirana had been too weak and moronic to accomplish—completely and utterly destroy the abominable city of Phlan!

  Memories flickered through Dusk’s mind.

  Three centuries ago he had ruled the skies over the Moonsea. All the cities along the coast had lived in fear of his shadow. Dusk had plundered wherever he went, amassing a hoard of riches that made the treasure of a hundred kings pale in significance.

  Then he had devised his most brilliant plan.

  He flew from mountain peak to mountain peak, from ruin to ruin, speaking with the other evil dragons that lived along the shores of the Moonsea. With sly, cunning words, he played upon the hatred that all dragons felt for human, dwarven, and elvenkind. He lit a spark in the hearts of the evil dragons—red, blue, green, and black—until that spark grew into a burning wildfire. One dark dawn, a hundred dragons flew from their hidden lairs to join his army and fight as one, assailing all the lands around the Moonsea.

  Thus began the first dragon-rage.

  Folk cowered in their cities as destruction rained down from above. Fire and acid, lightning and poisonous clouds, mayhem and devastation. Dragon wings blotted out the sun, and dragon roars boomed like thunder. It was glorious. And Dusk was the most magnificent of them all. The other dragons looked to him as their exalted leader. The tribute they had agreed to pay would make him lord over a mountain of treasure such as Faerun had never seen.

  Or it would have come to pass, had it not been for Andehar Longarm.

  Andehar was the latest in Phlan’s irksomely endless supply of champions. Heroes seemed to breed like lice in that wretched city. Just as the dragon-rage was nearing the peak of its frenzy, Dusk had made the mistake of flying too close to Phlan’s walls. Standing atop the city’s battlements, Andehar had loosed an enchanted arrow from his bow. Guided by magic, the barbed shaft had struck Dusk in his left eye.

  Dusk had never known such agony. He had spun wildly through the air, blinded by the pain. He fell to the ground and crawled away. Without his leadership, the evil dragons began to bicker among themselves. Hatred and suspicion flared. The dragon-rage descended into chaos as the wyrms sped back to guard their lairs from each other, leaving Dusk to flee abjectly to the mountains. He never forgot the cheers rising from the walls of Phlan, and he had vowed to exact his vengeance upon that blasted city and all of the vile folk that inhabited it.

  Dusk had limped into a cavern deep in the Dragonspine Mountains, intent upon licking his wounds until he gathered the strength once again to assault Phlan. But he had not counted on the pool of twilight. He had stumbled upon it by accident, and in his delirium of pain and anger had succumbed to the tempting offers of power made to him by the storm giant who was the pool’s guardian. Dusk had agreed to enter the pool in the hope of gaining the power he needed to recuperate and wreak the ultimate vengeance. The storm giant had been freed—while Dusk found himself trapped.

  Over time, Dusk had discovered he could use the power of the pool to compel the multitudes of monsters that inhabited the mountains to do his bidding. All it took were a few droplets from the pool mixed with the underground streams that flowed below the cavern. Once the streams passed into the outside world, all manner of creatures drank from their waters, thus falling under Dusk’s sway. Over the centuries, he had amassed great hordes of creatures and sent them to attack Phlan. Time and time again the monsters failed, dying by the thousands against Phlan’s stubborn walls. Eventually Dusk realized that there was only one way he could destroy Phlan. He had to launch a new dragon-rage.

  And now that he was finally free, he could do just that. Only this time he would not send a hundred dragons against the cities of the Moonsea. He would send a thousand! He would not be simply a prince of his kind, or even a king. He would be an emperor of dragons, and all the lands around the Moonsea would cower in fear before him.

  Dusk unfolded his huge, shadowy wings, exulting at the glorious victory that would soon be his. Ah, but first he had to say a fond good-bye to Sirana. As the pool’s new guardian, it would be her honor to grant him the power he needed to summon the evil wyrms for a new dragon-rage.

  “Sirana!” he called out. “Heed my call!”

  Why should I, wyrm? the sorceress’s voice echoed in his mind with a sound like laughter. It was clear she was enjoying her newfound status as the pool’s guardian and was intoxicated by the incredible power. Sirana was even more of a fool than Dusk had imagined.

  The dragon grinned evilly, displaying row after row of daggerlike teeth. “Obey my wishes, sorceress, or I will pulverize the mountains, sealing this cavern under so much rubble that it will never be discovered. You will remain here, imprisoned, forever.”

  He could feel fury radiating from the pool, along with just a hint of fear. His feral grin widened. She would be forced to serve him.

  Very well, she replied sullenly. What do you wish, wyrm?

  “Don’t call me that!” he hissed dangerously. He crawled toward the edge of the pool, seeing his dark and sinuous beauty reflected in its surface. “Now, grant me power enough to summon a thousand dragons.”

  I will grant you what I can. But I must retain enough power for myself so that I can create a new army to send against Phlan.

  The dragon roared with laughter. “Believe me, sorceress, nothing you can do while trapped within the pool will be enough to destroy that city. I have tried myself a hundred times over.”

  He felt disbelief radiate from the pool. “But do not fear,” he continued wickedly. “Once the dragon-rage has begun, Phlan will be blasted off the face of Toril. We will both have our revenge!” His one good eye glinted sharply. “Now, sorceress, grant me the power of
the pool.”

  As you wish.

  A dully shining tendril lifted itself from the surface of the pool. It reached toward Dusk, coiling about his body. The dragon threw his head back in a roar as the tendril tightened about him. He felt the pool’s magic flowing into him.

  “More!” he screamed, wings beating. “More!”

  Finally the tendril slipped back into the pool. Dusk stumbled backward, his head reeling. Ah, but it was exquisite! To be free, and so full of power!

  Deep within the pool, Sirana laughed smugly to herself. Like everything, even laughing was a new, exciting experience. All sense of her own body was gone now. Her senses seemed to mingle with the waters of the pool. The vast amount of magical energy she had just granted Dusk was but a fraction of the entire source.

  So in all these centuries, with all the might of the pool at his beck and call, the stupid dragon could not manage to destroy Phlan? Bah! Let the wyrm try his dragon-rage, thought Sirana. By the time he arrives at Phlan, he will find it a smoking ruin.

  She felt certain that she would succeed first where the dragon had failed. Without the Hammer of Tyr, Phlan had fallen into dark decay. The walls crumbled in disrepair, and the Death Gates hung open on their hinges—practically an invitation for an army of destruction to enter.

  Now all Sirana had to do was to create that army.

  With all the pool’s power flowing through her, she cast forth a summons. It vibrated through the bedrock, pulsing out in waves, spreading throughout the Dragonspine Mountains. Scant seconds later, the first to heed her call shuffled into the cavern.

  A motley throng of dull-eyed creatures approached the pool: bears and elk, eagles and snakes, insects and worms. There were monsters as well: goblins, orcs, owlbears, gnolls, and giants. Among them too were humans, dwarves, and even elves.

  All of them were dead.

  Some were only in the first stages of decay, their pallid skin mostly unblemished, covered with fine, moist bits of leaf litter. Others were riddled with worm-eaten holes, their swollen flesh dripping off their bodies in gobbets. All lurched toward the pool, compelled by her call.

  Without the slightest hesitation, the zombies toppled over the pool’s edge, submerging themselves in the metallic waters. In new, horrible forms they clambered clumsily out the opposite side. A rotting goblin with hissing zombie snakes sprouting from its eye sockets was the first. Then came a dwarf with a screaming eagle’s claws sunk deep into its shoulders. A pixie stumbled out, black widow spiders bobbing from threads attached to its hands. A slack-jawed deer staggered to its feet, a dozen decomposing badgers skewered upon its antlers, snapping and hissing. A bow-wielding elf fused to the shoulders of a hill giant was followed by a gnome covered with undead stinging insects. An orc sprouted from the back of a mountain lion. The gaping, fang-toothed maw of a wolf, snapping violently, was embedded in the chest of a human man. More and more abominations climbed out of the pool’s waters in a steady stream.

  And still more.

  Sirana’s laughter bubbled to the surface of the pool. Phlan would never stand against her army of zombie abominations! She intensified her summons, compelling yet more putrid corpses to lurch into motion and begin their trek toward the pool of twilight.

  Disgusted by the reek of Sirana’s vile creations, Dusk turned to slither down a passageway. Despite his vast size, his sinuous body glided easily through the twists and turns. He sensed the nearness of the outside, and, in a spray of stone and rubble, he burst through a wall of rock. Like a black comet, he soared through the air, winging high over the jagged mountains.

  Ah, to fly free once again!

  For a while, he simply wheeled through the air, pumping his great, dark wings, thrilled by long-forgotten sensations. But his purpose burned within him. He had all the power he needed from the pool. Now, to seek out the other evil dragons of the Moonsea, and once again fan the spark of hatred in their hearts.

  As he flew over the mountains, there was no way Dusk could have known that brilliant, twilight-colored flecks of light danced in his one good eye.

  17

  The Wild Gift

  The frigid wind whipped through Daile’s hair as her magic carpet sped through the air high above the Dragonspine Mountains. She knew she should stop and make camp. It was reckless to fly so fast in the darkness. Several times she had narrowly avoided pinnacles of rock looming before her or the outstretched branches of tall trees. But still she gripped the carpet’s tassels, guiding it onward. She had barely paused in her journey since leaving the Valley of the Falls two days ago. Not that it had been easy to leave. No, she thought ruefully. Leaving had been the hardest thing she had ever done.

  Her mind drifted back to that cold, gray day. She had buried Ren in a cairn of stones next to Ciela, below the glittering, frozen cathedral of the waterfall. After she had placed the last rock on the cairn, she simply sat there and stared at the motionless water, not knowing what to do. She had never felt so utterly alone.

  In her gloom, she almost hadn’t seen see the trio of orcs that crept into the clearing behind her. But at the last moment, she’d caught a reflection of the pig-snouted creatures in the glassy surface of the waterfall. She’d whirled around as the orcs bared their yellowed tusks and drew their rusted short swords. Then the bloodthirsty monsters had charged.

  In the space of a heartbeat, Daile had raised her bow, and, with icy calm, loosed three arrows in rapid succession. The orcs had dropped in their tracks, looks of dull-witted astonishment on their warty faces, each with a red-feathered arrow protruding from its throat.

  Daile had lowered her bow, feeling a strange warmth surging through her blood. It was as if the attack had broken her from the grip of a spell. For the next three days she’d prowled the valley from end to end, from river to ridge top, searching. Every creature of evil she found had fallen prey to her arrows. Orcs, kobolds, even trolls were her quarry. All that filled her mind was the hunt. She had stalked the forest, as if it were her natural home, and she a hunter born to the wild.

  Finally there had been no more monsters to slay.

  Those few that might have remained had heard of her deadly bow and fled. Daile had returned to the small stone keep as a great weariness came over her. She’d slept for a day and a night, and when she woke, it was again as if waking from a spell. What had happened to her? She had almost … lost herself to the wilds. How much longer could it have gone on before she became the same as any beast?

  She’d shuddered, vowing never to lose control of herself like that again.

  Suddenly thoughts of Kern and the others had come crashing down on her; she had tarried too long. With one last glance at the valley that had been her home, she had leaped on the magic carpet and soared into the sky….

  Finally Daile realized she could keep her eyes open no longer. She had to stop and rest for just a few hours, until the dawn. Then she would be on her way again. She pulled on the golden tassels, and the carpet began to descend.

  A glimmer of light caught her eye.

  It quickly vanished, but a moment later she saw it again. A small, warm spark dancing in a dark grove of trees. Someone was down there!

  Instantly, all thoughts of sleep vanished from Daile’s mind. She jerked hard on the tassels, and the carpet sped toward the firelight.

  As she drew closer, she could make out two figures in the flickering circle. Quickly, she dug in her pack and pulled out the cylindrical scrying glass that had been her father’s. When she lifted it to her eyes, her heart leaped in her chest. Evaine and Gamaliel! The long-haired sorceress lay near the fire, her eyes closed in sleep, while the tawny cat sat on his haunches, keeping watch. Daile grinned exultantly. She started to lower the scrying glass, then suddenly halted.

  A third figure had drifted into the clearing.

  It was a thing of shadows. All she could make out were sharp, moon-bright teeth and countless twiglike fingers. She drew in a sharp breath. Whatever it was, it was heading straight for Evaine. The gre
at cat was staring into the night, seemingly oblivious to the intruder.

  “Come on, Gamaliel,” Daile whispered.

  But the cat did not stir as the shadow creature reached its long arms toward Evaine. Even as Daile watched through the scrying glass, the creature’s spindly fingers touched the sorcereress’s brow. Evaine shuddered in her sleep. Gamaliel turned his head, as if sensing something was wrong, but it was clear that for some reason he could not see the creature.

  Daile knew she had to act. As the carpet sailed toward the clearing, she hastily set down the scrying glass and reached for her bow, but by the time she looked up, the shadow creature was gone!

  She shook her head. How could the thing have disappeared so suddenly? She lifted the scrying glass again to be sure.

  No, the shadow creature still cradled Evaine’s head in its hands, baring fangs in a milk-white grin.

  Daile realized the truth: the scrying glass must be enchanted. That was why she could see the shadow creature. Gamaliel was not to blame. It was up to her to save Evaine.

  Hastily she set the scrying glass aside and raised her bow. “If there is a way to wound a shadow, bow, show me what it is,” she whispered fiercely.

  The magical weapon quivered in her hands, the two ioun stones set into its wood humming brightly. Suddenly scarlet flames crackled along the arrow. The crimson bolt streaked through the air. It passed a scant foot above Evaine’s sleeping form—and stopped in midair.

  The great cat leaped to his feet at this strange sight.

  “Gamaliel, Evaine is being attacked!” Daile shouted. Even as her words rang out, scarlet tongues of fire radiated from the arrow, outlining a writhing form. The shadow creature. With the aid of the magical fire, Daile and Gamaliel could see the thing clearly. It had lifted its twig-fingers from Evaine and was scrabbling at the arrow protruding from its chest. Gamaliel lunged toward the thing, fangs bared. He snarled and leaped back as crimson fire seared his muzzle. The shadow creature grabbed at the cat with its branchlike arms, ready to sink its needle fangs into Gamaliel’s flesh.