Pool of Twilight (15 page)

Kern mumbled a curse under his breath. He knew he might as well tell her. Sending her back to the tower would never do at this point. “I’ve come to spend the night in vigil at the shrine of the paladin, Miltiades. He was one of the bravest paladins who ever served Tyr, both in life a thousand years ago, and when he was raised from the tomb by Tyr to help save Phlan from the Red Wizard, just before I was born. Praying at the tomb of a great hero is something paladins do to gain guidance and strength before they set off on a quest. I really wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Oh? Why not?”

Kern growled. “Just keep out of my way, all right?”

“That could be difficult, what with your big feet,” Listle whispered.

Kern ignored her, stepping through the archway leading into the crypt of Miltiades, Listle on his heels. Though the monument in memory of the esteemed paladin had been erected a scant twenty-two years ago, it seemed to have already fallen under the blight that afflicted the rest of Phlan. Dark moss covered the granite walls, and damp, musty-smelling water pooled on the floor. A stone sarcophagus dominated one end of the crypt. On its lid was carved a likeness of Tyr’s scales of justice.

“Do me a favor, Kern,” Listle whispered, crossing her arms to protect against a shiver. “If I die, don’t bury me in this creepy graveyard. You can just cover my body with a pile of leaves in the forest instead. That would do just nicely.”

“That’s fine talk,” Kern grumbled. “Can’t you simply be quiet for a change?”

“Don’t be silly,” Listle said indignantly.

Kern found a dry patch of stone before the sarcophagus and knelt down on the ground, while Listle stayed close to the crypt’s entrance. He gripped his holy symbol and bowed his head, trying to clear his mind before beginning his prayers.

“Er, Kern…” Listle interrupted.

Kern muttered another oath as the elf’s voice broke his concentration. “Now what?” he asked in annoyance, standing and turning to face the elf, hands on hips.

“Sorry to bother you.” Her silvery eyes were wide. “I just thought you might like to know that there are shadows moving out there. Lots of shadows. And they’re coming this way.”

Something in the elf’s voice told Kern that this was not another one of her pranks. He gazed out the crypt’s entrance. At first he could see nothing. Then the moon passed from behind a cloud, and he took in a sharp breath.

A dozen smoky shapes flitted among the rotting tombstones, creeping toward the paladin’s shrine. A dozen burning pairs of eyes stared hungrily. Kern’s heart lurched in his chest.

“Wraiths…” he breathed.

“What can we do?” Listle asked tremulously.

“Get ready to fight. And at all cost, don’t let them lay a hand on you. One touch is all it takes to freeze your heart.”

Powerful undead creatures, wraiths were the spirits of long-deceased humans who hungered yet for the blood of life. The presence of two living creatures had awakened them from their slumber, and now they intended to feed.

The wraiths drifted closer, their eyes glowing. Kern drew his hammer from his belt, but he didn’t know how much good one weapon—enchanted or not—would do against a mob of wraiths.

The shadowy forms reached out dark, spindly arms, ready to bestow death upon their victims.

“May Tyr protect us,” Kern murmured.

Suddenly a brilliant sapphire light burst into existence behind Kern and Listle, radiating from deep inside the crypt.

“That he will do, young paladin!” a voice boomed.

The blinding radiance shone forth from the entrance of the crypt, its beams piercing the nebulous bodies of the wraiths. The undead creatures let out soundless screams, writhing in agony as the magical light tore into them. With a collective sigh, the remnants of the wraiths sank back into the dank earth and were gone. The cerulean light dimmed but did not altogether vanish.

Kern and Listle spun about. They saw two things.

The first was that the heavy stone lid of the sarcophagus was askew.

The second was that they were not alone.

A man stood before the sarcophagus. He was clad from head to toe in burnished steel armor, armor that was ornate and oddly archaic looking, bespeaking the customs of another, bygone age. Emblazoned on his breastplate were the golden scales of Tyr, marking him as a paladin. In his gauntleted hand was an unadorned shield, this the source of the holy light.

“Who … who are you?” Listle gasped.

In answer, the paladin flipped back the visor of his helm. Listle clamped a hand over her mouth in terror. The face revealed was not that of a living man. It was a skull. Withered skin, as brittle as parchment, clung to its bones, and a few wisps of dry, strawlike hair hung to either side. The paladin seemed to gaze at them with dark, hollow eye sockets.

“Miltiades!” Kern whispered in awe.

The undead paladin nodded solemnly. “In the flesh.” The perpetual grin of death he wore widened even farther. “Er, figuratively speaking, that is.”

The questers gathered in the courtyard before Denlor’s Tower in the steely predawn light.

Kern saddled his white palfrey, making certain the saddlebags bulging with provisions were securely fastened. Listle was already sitting astride her dappled gray, but then the nimble elf never bothered with tedious details like saddles or reins. Nor did she need saddlebags. Countless small pouches—bulging with myriad spell components—hung around the wide strip of leather she had used to belt her oversized tunic of green wool.

Kern frowned as he glanced at the silver-eyed illusionist. He didn’t recall asking Listle to accompany him on the quest. Not that he minded. Her magic was bound to come in handy. It just might have been nice if she had at least pretended the decision was up to him.

A thought struck him. “We don’t have a horse for you, Sir…er…Sir Miltiades.”

The undead knight had been standing silently on the edge of the courtyard in his archaic, intricately wrought armor. “There is no need to call me ‘Sir,’ Kern,” Miltiades said. There was a faint note of humor in the ghostly voice that echoed inside the knight’s faceplate.

Kern swallowed hard. “All right, Si—er, Miltiades. Should I go see if I they have a horse we can buy at the city’s livery? It would only take a few minutes.”

The paladin shook his head. “That will not be necessary. I have my own steed to bear me.”

From a black velvet pouch, Miltiades drew a small ivory figurine carved in the likeness of a horse. He set the carving on the ground, uttering a single sibilant word. The figurine flared brightly, and suddenly a magnificent, snow-white horse stood in the courtyard. The animal tossed its shining mane, its silver-studded barding jingling pleasantly.

“That’s a handy trick,” Listle said, gazing at the equine in open admiration. “Instantaneous horse.”

“It is good to see you again, Eritophenes.” Miltiades greeted the horse, and the magical stallion snorted, stamping a hoof in reply. The feeling was apparently mutual.

Kern shivered, but he wasn’t certain if it was from the morning chill or from standing so close to the undead paladin. While everything about Miltiades’ manner was noble and kind, it was hard for Kern to forget that the paladin was … well, dead, for lack of a better description. A coldness always seemed to linger near the knight, along with a faint, dusty aroma that reminded Kern of the graveyard. Needless to say, the paladin’s presence was going to take a little getting used to.

The wild mage, Sirana, appeared out of the shadows, astride a skittish roan stallion with a perfect white star on its forehead. When she saw Kern, she smiled.

“Are you ready for your quest, paladin?” she asked in her sultry voice.

Kern blushed, mumbling something unintelligible in reply. Sirana’s stunning smile widened.

The wild mage wore only a cream-colored traveling cloak over her thin white robe. This warranted a clear look of disapproval on Listle’s part. However, before the elf could comment, Tarl and Anton stepped out of the tower, bearing a few more odds and ends the travelers might find useful on their journey.

Both clerics had been astonished to see their old friend Miltiades that morning, but pleased, of course. It was certainly a sign that Tyr favored them, Anton had said.

“You’re riding off on a grand adventure, Kern,” the grizzled patriarch said wistfully. “I almost wish I could journey with you.” A hopeful light shone in his eyes.

“No, Patriarch Anton, it is not fated to be,” Miltiades said, understanding Anton’s look.

“But there are only four of you,” Anton protested. “The prophecy states that five should journey in search of the hammer.”

“The fifth we will meet before we reach our destination,” Miltiades answered. “That much Tyr has revealed to me, though who the fifth will be, I cannot say.” The paladin laid a cold gauntlet on the big cleric’s shoulder. “Besides, good Anton. Something tells me your strength will be needed here in Phlan while we are away. Your strength, and that of Tarl Desanea.”

The patriarch hung his head forlornly for a moment. Then he looked up, laughing. “Oh, who am a fooling?” he rumbled. “I always break out in saddle sores after ten minutes of riding. Leave the quests to the young ones.” He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Er, present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Miltiades murmured.

Tarl stepped forward and gripped his son’s arms tightly. “May Tyr go with you, Kern.”

“I’ll do my best, Father,” Kern said quietly.

The white-haired cleric nodded, his expression intent. “I know you will, Son. Shal and I will be waiting for you.”

Neither had to say that speed was of the essence. Time was Shal’s greatest enemy now. Kern had to act swiftly to gain the hammer and return before it was too late. Father and son embraced tightly.

It was time to bid farewell.

The four riders guided their mounts out of the courtyard of Denlor’s Tower. The quest for the lost hammer had begun.

The sun was barely visible amid a sea of clouds as the four rode through the empty streets of the city. Frost had etched Phlan’s buildings with its pale gilding during the night, and the air was bitterly cold. By the time they reached the city’s edge, the overcast sky hung dark, low, and sullen above the city rooftops.

Kern led the way through the Death Gates astride his sleek palfrey. Sirana followed close behind, with Listle next on her dappled gray, unconsciously frowning at the beautiful wild mage. Last to ride through the gate was the undead paladin Miltiades. A banner flew from the tip of the lance he held upright, its butt-end braced in his stirrup. The wind caught the banner, unfurling it, and the golden scales of Tyr shone dully in the dim light.

Phlan faded into the distance as Kern guided his mount west along the pebble-strewn shore of the Moonsea. The ruins of the red tower lay to the southwest, across the vast lake. While a ship would have made for a shorter journey, sailing on the Moonsea was risky during the winter months. Sudden snow squalls could arise out of nowhere, icing up a ship’s rigging and snapping its mast in a matter of minutes. Not only was an overland journey safer, it would allow them the opportunity to stop by the dwelling of the sorceress Evaine.

Kern’s armor was cold against his skin as he rode, but he ignored it as best he could. He rested his hand on the warhammer at his hip. Already its weight at his side was growing comfortable. Slung over his left shoulder was the shield Miltiades had borne when he appeared in the crypt. The undead paladin had presented it to Kern last night, a gift from the god Tyr himself. Kern was so dumbfounded he would have completely forgotten to voice his thanks if Listle hadn’t elbowed him hard in the ribs. The silver shield was without adornment—as befit a paladin-aspirant. Kern would be granted an emblem of his own on the day he became a true paladin. If that day ever came, he thought with a sigh.

They had been riding perhaps an hour when Sirana guided her mount close to Kern’s.

“There’s a storm coming in off the Moonsea.”

Kern couldn’t help but marvel at the beautiful mage’s voice. It was rich and smoky. Even simple words seemed musical when she spoke them.

“How do you know?”

“Can’t you feel it?” A look of surprise crossed her face. Then she laughed. “I’m sorry. Of course you can’t. Sometimes I forget that not everyone grew up a wizard in the wilderness.” She scanned the placid surface of the Moonsea. The water and the sky were the same dull shade of gray, so that it was impossible to tell where the two met on the horizon. “I can sense the storm approaching. It’s like …” She searched for the right words. “It’s like a power in the air.” She turned her gaze on Kern. “An energy I can feel tingling against my skin. Right now a few snowflakes whirl by, but by evening snow will blanket the land. However, the storm will be less severe farther from the Moonsea. We may care to ride a few leagues inland.”

“If you think we should,” Kern agreed. “Let’s confer with Miltiades.”

“It is your quest, Kern,” the undead paladin said from the back of his white mount. “We will do as you see fit.”

Kern swallowed hard. He had naturally assumed that Miltiades would act as the group’s leader. Apparently that was not to be so. He drew a deep breath. He hadn’t expected to be giving orders to a legendary hero like the paladin.

Sirana turned toward Listle, who was riding bareback nearby. “What do think?” the wild mage asked the elf. “As a sorceress, I’m certain you can feel the storm coming as well as I.”

“Of course,” Listle lied, gritting her teeth. Oh, she wished she could wipe that smug look off the wild mage’s pretty face. They weren’t even halfway through the first day, and Sirana already had Kern wrapped neatly around her little finger.

“Good,” Sirana smiled. “Shall we ride inland then?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Listle replied, her voice dripping honey. “I’m rather fond of getting caught in blizzards, sinking into deep snowdrifts, and freezing perfectly solid. Aren’t you?”

“Well, I’m not certain now,” Sirana said without a trace of sarcasm. “You make it sound so pleasant.”

Listle glared at her, then wheeled her horse away from the frozen edge of the Moonsea, heading inland.