Pool of Twilight (14 page)

“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 continue 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?

“Rise, Hoag. They have gone.”

Sirana waved a fine-boned hand over the form of the fallen black knight.

Two points of crimson light flared to life behind the helm’s visor. The knight rose to his feet, then genuflected ceremoniously before Sirana. This evoked a deep laugh from the half-fiend sorceress. “I trust my magic left you unharmed, faithful Hoag, as I promised it would.”

The black knight nodded, standing tall. “I am unharmed, mistress, though the pain was tremendous.” The glowing eyes flickered. “But then, pain is of no moment to me. As always, I am grateful to serve.”

“Excellent, Hoag.” The full moon had torn through the concealing clouds. Sirana’s robe glowed eerily in the pale light. Despite the sharp air, she felt not the slightest chill. The fire of hate that burned within her was too strong. “You have done your task well tonight. I will summon you again when I have need of you. And I will have need of you.” She laughed again, malevolently. “That foolish paladin-puppy has invited me along on his quest just as I planned.”

A hissing sound emanated from the black knight’s helm. “Beware, mistress. Paladins, like clerics, may be able to sense your dark nature.”

“I think not, Hoag. I have woven a dozen magical protections about myself. Besides,”—Sirana gazed at her hands, coppery-colored even in the washed-out light of the moon—”the twilight pool is like nothing they have ever experienced before. All-powerful. No, if those fool disciples of Tyr sense anything about me, it will be magic of unusual power. And,” she cooed, “what more could they wish for in an ally?”

Hoag did not reply. The fiend simply bowed to the wisdom of his mistress.

It was nearly midnight when Kern left the quiet haven of Denlor’s Tower and slipped away through Phlan’s ill-lit streets.

Tarl had fallen asleep in a chair, sitting by his stricken wife’s bed as he did every night. It had been easy to pad down the stairs without waking him. Sneaking past Listle’s room had proven more nerve-wracking. The elf’s ears were more sensitive than any human’s, and she was a light sleeper. It would have ruined everything if Listle had woken up and spied him. Nothing would have been able to keep her from following him. However, Tymora, Goddess of Luck, appeared to be watching over him still. Kern made it out of the tower undetected.

He glanced up at the full moon, high in a sky littered with fast-moving clouds. He had to hurry; it was almost time.

He had covered his mist-gray tunic with a cloak of midnight blue. At his hip was Primul’s warhammer. He moved swiftly through shadowed avenues, past the blankly staring windows of moldering, abandoned buildings.

The moon was directly overhead when he reached the edge of Valhingen Graveyard. It was midnight. Just in time.

The cemetery was one of the most ancient places in Phlan, sitting atop the crest of a low hill in a thinly populated section of the city. It was here that, on his first journey to Phlan, Tarl had encountered a horde of undead under the command of a vampire lord. The undead cruelly slew Tarl’s brethren, and the vampire took the Hammer of Tyr from the cleric. Tarl had barely escaped with his life. But later, Tarl, Shal, and Ren had returned to defeat the undead of Valhingen Graveyard. That was more than thirty years ago.

Kern pushed through the graveyard’s rusting wrought-iron gate. Crumbling tombstones and dilapidated mausoleums glowed strangely in the ethereal moonlight. Nettles and witchgrass tangled the footpaths, scratching at his ankles as he passed. The graveyard was a forsaken place. Few, if any, ventured here anymore. There was little enough worth placed on life these days in Phlan; no one could be bothered to pay respect to the dead.

Kern pushed his way through the weeds, toward a newer-looking crypt that stood in the center of the cemetery. A sound to his left made him freeze. Hair prickled on the back of his neck; his heart jumped. He listened for a moment and finally decided the sound had simply been his imagination. He started down the path once more.

And heard the sound again.

It was a faint scraping noise, like stone moving across stone. Slowly, Kern turned to his left.

Something was stirring inside a marble ossuary.

The ornately carved coffin had been cracked open, like a gigantic stone egg. Something stirred in the darkness within. Backlit by the silvery moon, a ghostlike shadow had begun to rise out of the ossuary.

With one hand Kern gripped the holy symbol of Tyr, with his other he hefted the enchanted hammer. The ghost-shadow stretched two ghastly appendages toward him. He had heard that, with a mere touch, such spirit creatures could drain the warmth of life right out of a man. He did not want to find out if such stories were true.

He gripped the holy symbol hanging from a chain about his neck. “Begone, spirit of evil!” he cried out

The ghost giggled.

Kern frowned in puzzlement. Somehow that was not the reaction he had expected. Then the ghost-shadow stepped lithely out of the ossuary and into a soft beam of moonlight. Kern groaned in dismay.

“Listle!”

The elf was still giggling. ” ‘Begone, spirit of evil!’ “she mimicked in a deep voice. “Oh, that was just great, Kern. I’m sure a real ghost would have just broken down and run at that!” She collapsed in a fit of hilarity onto the stone coffin. Her laughter seemed out of place in the somber cemetery.

“Quiet!” Kern hissed, gazing around, eyes wide. He didn’t suppose there was anyone—anything—for the elf’s laughter to disturb, but why take chances?

In deference to his tone of voice—or perhaps because she herself noticed the peculiar way the air in this place seemed to strangle her mirth—Listle abruptly fell silent.

“What are you doing here?” Kern whispered harshly.

Listle glanced nervously at the crumbling tombstones. All the humor seemed to have drained out of her. “What do you think, you oaf? I wanted to find out what you were up to.”