Pools of Darkness hop-2

by James M. Ward

  "As you wish, master," the deep voice grated as the fiend teleported out of the room.

  "Fiends are such childlike creatures," Marcus sighed, before arising to see to arrangements.

  Alone in the throne room, the erinyes hopped out of her alcove to stretch her feathered wings. The creature flopped down in Marcus's throne to lounge undisturbed. Having heard the entire conversation, she amused herself by dreaming of ways to vent her "childish" impulses on the entrails of the Red Wizard.

  "A strange forest we ride through, my lord. I don't remember a forest growing in this part of the cavern before."

  Eyeing the trees, the knight Thorvid sheathed his sword and unhooked a large battle-axe from his saddle. The four men on horseback slowly trotted through a forest of twisted, moldering trees. Moss dangled and swayed eerily from mottled brown branches.

  "These trees are damn disturbing," Tarl observed, drawing forth the Warhammer of Tyr. The ancient relic emitted a blaze of holy radiance. "My old comrade, Ren o' the Blade, could have told us just what these trees are and what all that slimy fungus is on their branches. I know I've never smelled its like before. The stench is almost like the rotting smell of undead creatures.

  "Is it possible that whoever transported us here practiced first on trees, and this is what happens when a forest exists underground too long?" Thorvid asked.

  Tarl shuddered at the thought. "Pomanz, your father was a forester, wasn't he? Have you ever seen anything like this?"

  "I never have, and I don't mind saying that I'll be glad when we're clear of them." Pomanz sheathed his saber in exchange for his battle-axe. The three knights had battled together too many years to ignore each other's hunches. If these trees were capable of attack, axes would slay them faster than swords. "And there's something unnatural here. There's no wind, yet the branches seem to wave in a breeze."

  "I don't remember hearing about a forest in any of the scouting reports," Alaric observed, swinging his axe in wide arcs to stretch his muscles.

  Suddenly, the radiance of Tyr's hammer glowed brighter and shone on a clearing ahead of the foursome. Bathed in the hammer's glow, a Red Wizard of Thay stood before them. Gold-trimmed red robes flowed about the sorcerer, making him appear to hover over the ground. Black hair spilled down his back, matching a closely-trimmed beard. Steely eyes glared out from under bushy eyebrows. The wizard was an imposing sight, yet Tarl and his men were unimpressed.

  "Welcome to my lands, noble knights," Marcus sneered. "Judging from your flags of surrender, can I assume you intend to turn Phlan over to me?"

  The four warriors spread out in a line in front of the wizard. The horses stamped nervously, tearing up the earth and uncovering tough tree roots just under the surface.

  "Whom do I have the honor of addressing?" Tarl asked in his most polite tone.

  "Why, foolish priest, I am Marcus, Red Wizard of Thay and your host. I am the man who singlehandedly transported Phlan to its current resting place. Now that the pleasantries are over, I ask again-have you come to surrender Phlan to me?"

  The three knights left the negotiating to Tarl. Thorvid watched the trail behind them; Alaric watched the trees to the left; Pomanz guarded their right.

  "You are very brave, Lord Marcus, to meet our truce parley without guards. We have come at the request of Phlan's Council of Ten to talk terms of peace." Tarl was barely able to contain his anger at the effrontery of the mage he faced, but much more than his pride was at stake. He was committed to play peacemaker.

  The wizard answered haughtily. "I need no guards to protect me from your sort. As for terms of peace-there are none. I want your city. That's why I transported all of Phlan's buildings here. But all of the citizens may go, taking any goods they can carry. Take my message back to your Council of Ten." Marcus turned to leave.

  "Ignoring the fact that no one has the right to steal a city, where exactly are we?" Tarl asked.

  The wizard turned to the riders, irritated. From the glare in his eyes, he clearly found them unworthy of his audience. "You are in a great cavern beneath my red tower. You are still in Faerun-at least physically. You may take my generous offer to leave safely or you may die. Now be gone."

  Thorvid raised his battle-axe. "Why, you arrogant son of-" Tarl seized the knight's arm, even as he struggled to contain his own anger. Taking a deep breath, Tarl addressed the wizard.

  "Before I take your offer back to my people for discussion, I would like to see how we'll get out of this cavern. And I need your guarantee of safety for the people of Phlan."

  "Why, of course. Your wish is reasonable. You won't be able to take your horses up my stairs, but do come along." The wizard floated on puffs of red flame down a wide trail between the trees.

  Tightening their grips on their weapons, the four warriors fought to control their skittish mounts as they rode behind the wizard.

  After perhaps fifty yards, the forest opened up at the side of the cavern. A section of the cave wall melted away in a red mist, revealing a wide staircase spiraling upward.

  "Only you, priest, need to see the exit out of my tower. Send the rest of your rabble back to the city."

  "Where our lord goes, we follow," Pomanz declared, keeping a wary eye for signs of any trap.

  To keep the peace, Tarl was about to agree with the Red Wizard's request, but the wizard suddenly flew into a rage. He fairly bellowed at the four men.

  "Knight, know that I am Marcus, a mage of extraordinary power. You are nothing compared to my might. You will do as I say or I will destroy you." The wizard produced a sparking, popping ball of crimson energy in his right hand. His red robes writhed about him.

  "There will be no combat. We are under flags of parley. Surely, even the Red Wizards of Thay recognize such conventions of war."

  "Oh, we recognize them all right. This is our answer to such knightly foolishness." A wave of his left hand caused the two white flags to ignite and crumble to ash.

  "Wizard, you go too far!" Tarl shouted, raising his glowing hammer.

  Another wave of the mage's hand caused the ground to rumble underfoot. "No! I have not gone nearly far enough! You can all meet my pool of darkness or face my thorny horrors in the forest. There is no surrender and no escape. My pit fiend was stupid to think I could get anything from you this way. Good-bye."

  The wizard blinked out in a blast of red flame.

  "Something's happening behind us!" Thorvid shouted.

  The forest was writhing and shifting. Every tree was becoming a horribly twisted parody of a human. Tree limbs turned into giant arms; roots heaved from the ground, growing into huge legs; trunks twisted with loud groans into massive, pulsing chests and heads.

  Tarl hurriedly searched for an escape. They could go up the stairs into the darkness and whatever trap Marcus had prepared, or they could meet the tree monsters head on.

  "Tarl!" Pomanz pointed to the right.

  The mystical light in the cavern showed a narrow path through the forest. The companions spurred their mounts into the narrow gap between the trees and the edge of the cavern.

  A mile-wide swath of groaning, twisting trees slowly encroached on the path at the cavern wall, squeezing it tighter and tighter. The warriors threw aside lances and equipment to lighten the loads on the galloping horses, but each man could see they weren't moving fast enough to escape. Tarl led the charge toward the perimeter. "This would be a good time, Shal!" he screamed.

  Back in the red tower, Marcus and the pit fiend watched the wild ride from a crystal scrying sphere.

  "If she's coming to save them, your trees won't be able to stop the cleric and his friends. Latenat!"

  "I know, but maybe the minions of Moander can kill one or two of them. Look-his hammer isn't even bruising the bark. Moander certainly has a talent for perverting things of nature." The wizard rubbed his hands with glee.

  "Couldn't you have tried harder to trick them into moving up the stairs? Latenat!" The fiend was disgusted with the failure of the parley.
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br />   "No, this is much better. Tomorrow, or perhaps in a few days, after I have rested, I will lead those tree minions in a final attack on the city. We will pull down the walls once and forever. But we'll be careful, of course, to capture the defenders and not kill too many of them. Then Phlan and all its souls will be ours."

  Marcus paced the chamber in delight, anticipating the glorious future. Tanetal rubbed his greasy forehead, wondering what Bane would do with them when all the plans failed. The fiend stared into the scrying crystal.

  Tarl and the warriors thundered along the narrow corridor next to the cavern wall. Responding to a magical voice in his head, the ranger screamed to the others. "Hold your breath until the mist clears!" A purple haze materialized at the edge of the trees and drifted into the forest. The moving branches temporarily halted, but as the haze faded, the trees resumed their encroachment.

  A wall of ice and snow blasted out of the sky, forming a frozen drift at the edge of the forest. The trees slowed their squirming, and the fungus that dripped from the branches froze solid and fell off in huge chunks. Within moments, the ice began to melt and a cloud of steam arose. The trees resumed their unnatural assault.

  Finally, a pinpoint of light appeared above Tarl's head. Growing brighter and brighter, the speck swelled to a ball larger than a warrior's helmet. It followed the cleric as it blazed forth with the intensity of the sun.

  The unholy forest recoiled at the blinding light. Trees and plants ahead of Tarl all veered away as he approached. The four riders thundered onward, now unhindered. Less than five minutes later, they burst from the forest to charge across the grassy plain, their mounts streaked with white foam from the hard ride. Tarl called out to his unseen wife. "Nice going, Shal!"

  Up in Denlor's Tower, the sorceress smiled in relief.

  The reaction in the enemy camp was much different. In Marcus's tower, the fiend slammed his fist into the crystal sphere, smashing it to powder.

  12

  Disturbing Clues

  "Fair travelers, we would approach!" A voice rang through the woods, warning the sleeping camp of incoming strangers.

  Miltiades, always awake, stood guard. Ren had awakened early to share the morning watch. They heard scuffling sounds in the woods long before the voice announced the presence of travelers. Overhead, dark stormclouds still rumbled and swirled, but the sky had lightened with the sunrise. Three men astride huge wolves trotted into camp.

  Minutes earlier, Gamaliel had sensed their coming and awakened his mistress and the rest of the party.

  "Friendly faces are welcome, but be warned, we are a formidable band," Ren replied to their hail.

  Dismounting, the three strode toward the group. They were a rough lot with shaggy black hair and torn, homespun clothing. None showed any weapons-a fact the companions found unusual for woodland travelers. No weapons, that is, except for the three enormous wolves.

  "I am Artur Bladeson." The biggest of the three men gave Ren a toothy grin. "These cubs behind me are my cousins, Wuldor and Donar Arcnos. We are traveling to Vaasa to visit relatives in Moortown. Can you tell us of any trouble in the lands between there and here?"

  On the opposite side of the camp, the druids talked in hushed tones. "Look how the wolves are growling at Miltiades," Talenthia whispered to Andoralson. "Could they be sensing your illusion magic?"

  "No, but they could be detecting that he's an undead creature. I'll have to work on putting scent into my illusions. I don't usually bother. I hope you noticed those wolves aren't really wolves."

  Meanwhile, Evaine and the barbarian sized up the strangers.

  Mistress, Gamaliel mentally communicated, those men do not smell human. And those huge wolves are just waiting for the chance to attack. He stood facing the three men like a pillar of stone, blocking their view of Evaine.

  Ren senses something strange, too. I can tell by his posture. There's no question he's on the defensive. Let's follow his lead, Evaine silently told her comrade.

  The wolves continued to growl at Miltiades, all the while shooting wary glances at Gamaliel.

  "Brutus, Tog, Garf, shut up! These fine people have invited us into their camp. The least we can do is be civil. Wuldor, take those curs away and settle them down."

  Wuldor smelled like wet fur. Ren couldn't help but crinkle his nose as the man passed.

  "I don't think I've ever seen wolves used as mounts before. Are you druids?" Ren tried to break the uneasiness between the two sides.

  The three men laughed in an odd, barking manner.

  "Druids," Donar said, choking with laughter. "No disrespect to those two over there, but even druids couldn't tame our three pets. We live with these beasts, and they do what we tell them."

  "Your friends don't talk much," Artur said, warming his hands by the fire.

  "They just woke up," Ren said evenly. He walked to the opposite side of an already blazing fire and added more logs. He felt compelled to get these men on their way as soon as possible. "The paths to Vaasa are clear-I just came from there. Phlan has suffered the wrath of the gods and has disappeared. Only a patch of tents marks the place where the city once stood. But you shouldn't have much trouble passing through. What do you know of Zhentil Keep and Yulash?"

  "I heard that Phlan was gone," said Artur, "but I figured it to be a rumor. You've seen it, then?" Ren nodded. Artur's gaze shifted about the camp. "You people seem a little tense. Let's share some food. There's no reason we can't be friends, eh?" he said, trying to act more congenial than he looked. All the companions instinctively felt he was hiding something.

  Wuldor, still tending to the wolves, spoke to Ren. "If you're traveling south, stay away from Zhentil Keep. Something has stirred up the evil in that gods-cursed city. We lost a brother there when we tried to conduct some business for our master. Some frenzied priests of Bane attacked us without reason."

  None of this surprised Ren. Zhentil Keep was always a place to avoid, and Wuldor described what might well have been daily events.

  Wuldor was slapping the wolves and casting strange glances toward the campfire. "Something is odd about the forests and trails to the south of Zhentil Keep. We tore through them because they didn't smell or feel right. There's a growing evil."

  "Yulash, on the other hand, is fine. No problems," Donar said, taking packs of meat from his saddlebags. He quickly whittled a branch into a spit and hung some meat over the fire for roasting.

  Do you see what kind of meat that is, Gam? Evaine silently voiced to the barbarian.

  I smell what kind of meat it is. Should we attack now? The barbarian's eyes shifted from pale green to a deep golden color.

  Let me get Ren away from them. When I give the signal, I'll go for the humans-you attack the wolves. Maybe we can disable one or two of them before they have a chance to metamorphose, she told the barbarian. She raised her voice and spoke to the druids. "Talenthia, I think you should prepare your new chalice for our friends' visit. You know, the one that makes that wonderful wine." Evaine hoped the two would pick up on her hint.

  The sorceress mentally readied a spell. "Ren, could you help me for a moment? That clumsy barbarian has the straps of my backpack all tied in knots."

  The ranger arose, giving Gamaliel a puzzled look. He pulled a dagger from his boot and stepped toward Evaine. But as he did so, she rounded the campfire and yelled, "Attack!"

  Eighteen missiles of magical energy shot from her hands and struck Artur's chest, albeit with little effect. The camp was suddenly filled with the shouts of the companions and the flash of spells. But the three strangers and their wolves reacted almost in slow motion.

  Artur rose from his place by the fire. As he stood, he transformed, as did his cousins, into a werewolf. Dark fur sprouted all over their bodies. Each man grew in height, expanding muscles rippling along their arms and legs. The change was nearly instantaneous, but these monsters weren't in any hurry. They relied on the horrifying transformations to help frighten their victims.

  The thr
ee wolves grew from huge, four-legged shapes into large and deadly half-human forms, known through Faerun as wolfweres. The three new creatures launched themselves at Evaine, knowing the spellcaster was the greatest threat to them. The creature that had been Wuldor, now eight feet tall, moved to block Gamaliel.

  The barbarian's sword landed solidly on the wolfwere causing little more than a scratch.

  "Watch out! They're wolfweres!" Ren shouted, slashing at two of the transformed wolves with his magical daggers. The weapons bit deep and diverted the lunges of two of the wolf-men, but the third one smashed into Evaine full force.

  Worried about Gamaliel and Ren, Evaine was so caught up in her spellcasting that she didn't notice the attack from behind her. The wolfwere's front paws bashed into her skull and sent her to the ground with a thud. She lay motionless.

  Gamaliel's roar of rage could be heard for miles through the woods as he transformed into his true form, the giant cat. Two lightning-quick swipes with his eight-inch claws struck the monster that had attacked his mistress. Its spine was instantly severed, and Gamaliel tossed the wolfwere ten feet into the air. The monster landed, twitched, then was still. Blood oozed from its back and mouth.

  Miltiades, knowing only silver or enchanted blades could harm a werewolf, was attacking with brute strength. The undead paladin locked arms with what had been Artur and tried to strangle the life out of the creature. As the werewolf reached to do the same, the paladin's illusionary flesh turned back into enchanted bones.

  Artur howled in fright as Miltiades snapped his woolly neck.

  Wuldor leaped at Andoralson, but the creature's crusty claws struck-not the druid-but an illusion. Two mystical flaming scimitars, created by magic and guided by the druids, flew forth and bit deep into Wuldor's flesh, seeking his heart, burning his fur, and sending him thrashing to the ground.