Pool of Twilight

by James M. Ward

  Finally, Miltiades decided to take by stealth what he was denied in honorable battle. He stole into Zarl’s camp and slew the wizard. But in turn Miltiades was discovered and slain by the wizard’s servants. Then the evil horde marched to Turell, taking the city apart stone by stone. For a thousand years, Miltiades had lain in his tomb, shunned by his god, Tyr, for his dishonorable act.

  Then, some twenty-two years ago, Tyr had raised the paladin from the grave, giving him a chance to redeem himself. His quest was to restore the city of Phlan. After he had helped rescue the city from its imprisonment beneath the Red Wizard’s tower, Miltiades had returned to a more peaceful slumber in his crypt. But his mission was not over. Phlan would never truly be restored until the Hammer of Tyr was returned. Thus Tyr had raised him once again, to aid Kern on his quest to return the hammer to Phlan.

  Now that quest was finally near an end, for good or ill. Either way, Miltiades knew he would return to the grave once more. This time forever.

  Yet vows he had made in life went unkept. Even though Turell’s stones had long since turned to dust, the vows still bound him. He had sworn to protect the powerful secrets concealed beneath the city of Turell. True, the city was no more and the hidden chambers might never be found, but then again, some unlucky being might stumble upon them tomorrow. And then the entire continent of Faerun would be in peril.

  “If only I had more time,” Miltiades said softly to the night, “to make certain the secrets are safe.”

  “What secrets, Miltiades?” a voice asked gently.

  He turned to see a figure step out of the shadows. Long hair glistened in the moonlight. Evaine. Her green eyes regarded him intelligently.

  Slowly he shook his head. “Old secrets, Evaine. Secrets that are no doubt long buried and lost forever. I should not concern myself with them, but sometimes it is hard for the dead to forget what they did in life, even if it is no longer important.”

  Evaine gave him a thoughtful look. “If it concerns you, Miltiades, I somehow doubt that it is truly unimportant.”

  She took a step closer to him. Suddenly aware that his bony visage must glow lividly in the moonlight, he reached up to lower his visor.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  He halted, then nodded. “As you wish. Perhaps it is best. This way you will see me for what I am.”

  Evaine crossed her arms against the cold, laughing softly. “Oh, I know very well what you are, Miltiades. A man of great strength and greater gentleness. A man fierce in battle, but kinder than he is fierce. And above all a man with wisdom enough to see his own weaknesses and to forgive the weaknesses he sees in others.”

  Her words surprised him. For a moment, he almost felt a spark of warmth inside his empty rib cage. But no, that was impossible.

  “I always hoped that someday I would meet a man like you, Miltiades,” she went on softly. She shook her head ruefully. “I just forgot to hope that he would be alive when I did.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. It was all he could think of to say.

  She gave him a sharp look. “I’ve told you once not to be sorry, Miltiades. I’ll say it again. Don’t be.” She sighed, brushing her long hair from her face. “You have your vows to keep, and I have mine. I don’t suppose there’s much room for anything else in our lives.”

  He nodded in understanding. The two stood in silence for a long while, gazing into the night. When Evaine saw a shooting star, she didn’t even think to make a wish.

  18

  The Forces of Twilight

  Anton stood atop the temple of Tyr’s highest rampart in the steely light of predawn, gazing into the distance. He was watching. And waiting.

  Three hours earlier, Sister Sendara had woken him in the deep of night.

  “This is the day our fate will be decided,” the ancient priestess had whispered in the chilly darkness.

  At those words, dread had clutched Anton’s heart, but he had pushed the feeling aside. Quickly, he had donned his robe and hurried into the temple’s main hall, striking a bronze gong to wake the other clerics. In the dark before the dawn, he told his brothers and sisters of Sendara’s warning. In the hours since, the clerics of Tyr had done what they could to ready themselves and the temple for the coming onslaught, whatever form it might take.

  As Anton watched, the baleful eye of the sun heaved itself above the frozen plains, spilling its bloody light across the city. Gazing into the west, he saw a dark stain spreading across the horizon. Even as he watched, the thing grew larger, a vast, undulating sea approaching the city’s walls. His sharp eyes could just make out the twisted forms that shambled in the fore of the black tide.

  “Zombies,” Anton murmured. “An army of zombies.”

  He did not hesitate. He lifted a polished, silver-tipped ox horn that hung from a strap about his neck and sounded a long, clear note. The alarm rang out across the city.

  As it did, the scene erupted in chaos.

  Folk streamed into the streets. Word of the approaching army of doom had spread like wildfire. Now people shoved past each other in an effort to flee the city. Those who fell in the crush of humanity were trampled and did not get up. In years past, the valiant folk of Phlan would have armed themselves for battle. Today they poured out of the city’s western gate and fled into the countryside. Only a few remained behind, and these were mostly thieves and looters. By the time the zombies neared the Death Gates, the city was virtually empty.

  The massive, ironbound Death Gates had been called by many names in the past—Fire Dragon Gates, Ogre’s Bane Gates, Giant’s Doom Gates. But finally they had simply come to be called the Death Gates, for again and again armies of evil had broken and perished against them.

  But not this time. Rusted and worm-eaten, the Death Gates had decayed along with the rest of the city, and no one had bothered to repair them. As the throng of zombies surged forward, the huge gates groaned. More zombies pressed against them, and more, trampling each other to pulp as they pushed at the portal.

  Finally, the Death Gates exploded in a spray of rotting timber. Zombies streamed into the abandoned city. Those thieves who had chosen to linger behind and fill their pockets soon regretted their decision as they were torn limb from limb. In minutes all of Phlan was awash with zombies. Only one bastion of resistance remained, and it was upon this that the army of undead finally converged.

  The temple of Tyr.

  As he watched the zombie horde approach, Anton found himself wondering for the hundredth time how the Hammerseeker and his companions fared. But there was no way to know. Sendara’s runestones had revealed nothing. They could only hope that Kern was even now on his way back to the city. It was their only chance. If the temple fell before the hammer was returned, Phlan would be wiped off the face of Toril forever.

  “Help us, Tyr.” Anton muttered a prayer. “Help us to hold on.”

  Six other clerics ascended the walls to stand beside Anton. Below, Tarl led a dozen more clerics in the chants that lent magical strength to the gray stone walls and the huge iron gates. At last the horde of undead reached the temple, filling the air with their foul reek.

  Anton gazed at the attackers in horror. He had seen corpses raised from the grave before, and though the sight had been unpleasant, it was nothing compared to the throng of abominations he saw before him now.

  These zombies were mockeries of living beings, fused from the disparate pieces of myriad creatures as if they had been pasted together by a madman. A snarling elf possessing arms that ended, not in hands, but in the snapping heads of vipers. An undead lion with the rotting upper bodies of three bow-wielding halflings protruding from its back. A gigantic spider, its head that of a beautiful, pale-skinned woman, but its eyes the mindless, many-faceted orbs of an insect. And still more and worse that made Anton sick even to look.

  “In the name of Tyr, return to the graves that spawned you, creatures of evil!” Anton boomed, raising his arms above his head. The six clerics flanking him followed suit. Shimmerin
g blue light glowed around their fingertips.

  A score of zombies in the lead abruptly collapsed into heaps of dust, destroyed by the holy power of Tyr, but more zombie abominations lurched forward to take the place of those that had been eliminated.

  “Come, clerics of Tyr!” a goblin fused to the back of a decomposing wolf cackled with a dirty grin. “Come, join us.”

  “Why do you resist?” a mold-covered woman with scorpion tails for hair called in a syrupy voice. “If you fight us, you will perish, and then your bodies will be fused to ours. Whether you resist or not, inevitably you will join us.”

  A cacophony rose from the surging throng. “Join us! Joined to us! Join us!”

  Anton gagged in revulsion. “Let Tyr’s power strengthen you!” he called to the clerics beside him. All raised their arms once more, calling down the holy wrath of their god. Again, an entire rank of zombies exploded into clouds of choking dust.

  Still more shambled forward, jeering at the clerics of Tyr.

  Again, Anton and the six clerics beside him summoned Tyr’s power to destroy the slavering undead. And still again. One of the clerics collapsed in exhaustion, but the others chanted on, sending their prayers to Tyr. Fifty more undead burst into foul-smelling dust before another two clerics crumpled into unconsciousness, utterly drained from the effort of channeling so much magical energy.

  In the end Anton alone stood upon the rampart to call on Tyr’s power. It was a measure of his willpower that a dozen more zombies exploded into yellow splinters.

  Anton felt his knees give way. He slumped to the battlement, gasping for breath. He and his comrades had destroyed fully ten score zombies. But more had appeared to take their places, and the horde stretched through the city’s streets as far as the eye could see, out the Death Gates and to the distant horizon, a great, writhing, fearsome stain upon the land.

  “Strengthen the gates!” he shouted down hoarsely.

  Tarl was ready. “Tyr, grant us the power of your protection!” the white-haired cleric called out in a ringing voice.

  A dozen clerics chanted fervent prayers. Suddenly, massive columns of jagged stone began to push up out of the ground before the gates, growing like gigantic trees. In moments, a dozen columns towered in front of the gates, bolstering the portals. As the first zombies approached, spikes shot out of the columns like huge, stony thorns, impaling the undead creatures. The zombies writhed on the spikes, shredding their own rotting flesh with their struggles. Blue lightning crackled around their bodies, burning them to cinders.

  More zombies lurched mindlessly toward the gates. They, too, were impaled by the huge stone thorns and consumed by holy fire. Still more followed suit.

  The clerics chanted on. As one tired, slumping to his knees, another stepped forward to take his or her place. Through it all, Tarl’s voice never faltered.

  The zombies continued their mindless advance, letting out inhuman screams as the spikes rent their undead flesh and lightning coursed through their bodies, streaming out of their wounds and blankly staring eyes.

  The clerics chanted on, their voices growing ragged.

  Suddenly the mass of zombies parted before the gate. A huge fire giant strode through their ranks. His undead body was whole, but instead of eyes, in each socket was lodged the head of a dwarf. Screaming orders, the dual dwarf heads directed the lumbering body of the giant. The towering giant gripped two of the columns in its enormous hands.

  A dozen spikes shot out, piercing the giant’s hands. Holy magic crackled along the length of the monster’s arms. Flesh sizzled and bubbled, filling the air with its stench. But the magic was not enough. The giant’s arms tensed. The two columns shattered in a spray of stone, clearing a space before the gate. The giant reached out, gripping the top of the iron portal.

  Tarl, hearing the collapse, cried, “Louder, clerics of Tyr!” but this time their chants were to no avail.

  The fire giant grunted; the dual dwarf heads shrieked orders. The monster’s muscles bulged until they seemed ready to burst. Suddenly the sound of rending metal shattered the air. Shards of iron flew in all directions. The gates were sundered.

  The clerics of Tyr stared in horror as the fire giant stepped through, the dwarf heads in its eye sockets laughing evilly.

  Even then, Tarl Desanea stood strong.

  He could see the magically animated zombie clearly. In one swift move, he hurled his warhammer. It spun through the air and struck the giant directly between its hideous dwarf-eyes. The fire giant’s head exploded in a spray of rotting meat. It tottered and fell backward, crushing dozens of zombies to pulp beneath its bulk.

  “Retreat to the temple!” Tarl shouted.

  Hastily the clerics retreated, hauling Anton and the others who had collapsed back with them.

  “What of you, Brother Tarl?” Sister Sendara called out when it became clear that Tarl did not intend to budge from the twisted wreckage of the gates.

  “My place is here,” the white-haired cleric said fiercely.

  The old priestess only nodded, understanding in her dark eyes. She dashed into the temple with the others.

  “Hurry, Kern,” Tarl whispered softly, hoping somehow, somewhere, his son could hear him. “Wherever you are, you must hurry.”

  As the zombies rushed forward, jabbering with wicked glee, Tarl held up a single hand.

  “By Tyr, none shall pass!”

  Suddenly a shining wall of transparent blue fire appeared, sealing the gaping breach in the temple’s wall. The zombies recoiled from it. They could not pass through the holy light. Tarl clenched his jaw, concentrating. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his furrowed brow, rolling in rivulets down his face. He could feel Tyr’s strength flowing through him like liquid fire. A strange elation began to fill him; a fierce grin spread across his face. His days of self-pity and mourning were gone. All that mattered was his belief in Tyr and in justice.

  By all the gods of light, Shal, Tarl shouted inwardly, I will not give up! Somehow, I will hold on!

  Zombies shrieked in rage as by the dozens they tried to pass through the gates and perished. The magical barrier did not waver. Tarl’s faith sustained him against their onslaught. But gradually, the fire in his blood burned hotter and hotter.

  Inside the temple’s portico, Anton staggered weakly to his feet. He gazed between the marble columns. Awe filled him at what he saw.

  “How long … how long do you think he can hold the wall?” he asked in hoarse amazement.

  “Until the magic consumes him,” Sister Sendara answered sharply, “and he dies.”

  Kern and his companions were up with the cold gray dawn.

  Daile drew her previously miniaturized mount from a pocket and set it on the ground. Miltiades’ white stallion breathed on the figurine, and instantly Daile’s roan mare was snorting and pawing at the ground. Unfortunately, Evaine and Gamaliel were without mounts.

  “I can run as swiftly as any horse,” Gamaliel said with a laugh. Shimmering, his body remolded itself into his feline form. It was Listle who came up with a solution for Evaine. The elf gave her horse to the sorceress while she herself rode behind Trooper on Lancer’s broad back. This was much to the elder paladin’s chagrin, however, for it was clear after the first mile that Listle was a definite saddle hog.

  “All your squirming is going to make me sick,” he growled to the elven illusionist. “Can’t you sit still?”

  “No,” she replied sweetly.

  The old paladin grunted in exasperation. Listle gave a smug smile and wriggled another inch forward on the saddle, claiming still more territory for herself.

  Trooper bent down and pretended to scratch his mount’s ears. “All right, Lancer,” he whispered surreptitiously to the big stallion. “I’ll hold onto the saddle horn while you start kicking….”

  “Elves have very good ears, Trooper,” Listle warned.

  The paladin hurriedly sat up straight, a guilty look on his face.

  Kern shook his head as he watche
d this exchange. He could almost believe that this was the old Listle he saw, unpredictable and light-hearted, smiling and joking as if she had never spoken of Sifahir’s tower or of what had happened to her there. Almost. Except that every once in a while, when she must have thought he wasn’t looking, she would glance fleetingly in Kern’s direction, sadness in her silvery eyes.

  “You can’t love an illusion,” he muttered softly to himself. “Gods, you can’t even get a grip on one!”

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn’t think about Listle. Not now. He had to be ready to face Sirana at the pool.

  All morning they made slow progress, ascending a narrow pass between knife-edged peaks, breaking trail through deep drifts of soft, powdery snow. The wind at the summit whipped at them cruelly, and they quickly descended the other side of the pass, riding into a deep valley.

  “Are we nearing the pinnacle of stone, Evaine?” Miltiades asked as the sun began its westward trek. The paladin rode close to the sorceress.

  “I think so,” she replied. “I would know for certain if I could get a look above the trees.”

  “I think I can arrange something,” Daile said a bit mysteriously. Without explanation, the ranger wheeled her horse around and quickly disappeared among the trees. Kern exchanged a curious glance with the others.

  Scant minutes later, Daile caught up with the group. Her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed slightly out of breath.

  “I got a glimpse of the spire,” she said excitedly. “It’s no more than an hour’s ride ahead.”

  Kern gave the ranger a piercing look. “How do you know, Daile?”

  “I … I found a pile of boulders and climbed them,” she said, but this didn’t ring true. However, no one pressed the question.

  Before long, the sun slipped behind a mountain, casting a premature gloom over the forest. Finally the pines gave way to rolling alpine tundra, and they espied the pinnacle of stone. It loomed above them, a foreboding sentinel. At the base of the natural basalt spire was a grove of what appeared to be dark, leafless oak trees. But there was something unnatural about the grove.