Pool of Twilight (19 page)

Daile did not hesitate. She leaped to her feet, lifting her bow and loosing a red-feathered arrow in one swift motion. The arrow streaked through the air, plunging up to its fetching into the winged horse’s chest. The night stallion let out a death scream. The arrow had pierced its heart. The beast’s wings crumpled limply as it plummeted to the ground, trailing its flailing rider by the reins.

The night stallion burst into flames as it struck the ground, black, greasy smoke billowing up from the mass of ruined flesh and bone. The black knight crashed into a pile of jagged stones nearby, his lance splintering, dark armor caving in all along one side of his body. He lay still.

Ren nodded grimly at Daile as she lowered her bow. “That was a good shot—”

He halted.

Slowly, the black knight pulled himself to his feet. Daile and Ren stared in astonishment. How, by all the gods, could he have survived that fall? Armor creaking, the knight took a step toward the two rangers, then another, and another. As he moved, his dark plate mail began to groan and bend. With a ringing pop, a large dent unbent itself. The knight’s armor was regenerating! Quickly, Daile loosed two arrows in quick succession, but both bounced harmlessly off the armored knight’s mail. Ren stood protectively in front of her.

“What do you want of us?” he growled fiercely.

The knight halted a scant ten paces away. “To kill you,” he spoke in a strangely hissing voice. His armor became whole and gleaming once again. “I have been ordered to slay a vile paladin raised from the grave. But I will destroy any vermin in my path. That includes both of you.” With a fluid motion, the knight drew a bastard sword as darkly polished as obsidian.

“No,” Ren said, stepping forward. Damn, but he was getting too old for this nonsense. “Let your argument be with me alone. I offer you a challenge of single combat, knight.”

“Father!” Daile cried desperately.

“Quiet, Daile.”

The knight nodded. “Very well,” he rasped. “But it will be to the death, ranger.”

“So be it.”

The knight waved a black gauntlet, and suddenly three smoky bands encircled Daile, pinning her arms to her waist so she couldn’t move.

“To ensure our duel will be uninterrupted,” the black knight explained.

Ren gave Daile a reassuring look, then he turned to face the knight, unsheathing his two-handed sword. There was no more preamble. The two warriors circled around each other warily. There was nothing Daile could do but watch.

Each of the warriors made a few preliminary feints and slashes, testing the other’s reflexes, probing for weaknesses. Suddenly the black knight swung his blade high. Ren met it with his own sword. Sparks flew. Then the two whirled around, circling again. Swords clashed again, and again.

Ren feigned a stumble as he parried, and his foe took the bait. The black knight lunged forward with a killing blow. Quickly, Ren regained his balance, spinning inside his enemy’s guard. As he did, he transferred his sword to one hand and reached into his boot for the dagger called Left. He brought the dagger up in a swift thrust, slipping it through the gap between two steel plates and thrusting it up into the knight’s shoulder. The black knight screamed in fury. With unnatural strength, he hurled Ren backward. The ranger flew through the air and hit the ground with a grunt of pain, his sword flying from his grip.

He was definitely getting too old for this nonsense.

“You have made me angry, human,” the knight hissed venomously. “You will regret that mistake.” Suddenly the knight’s form began to undulate. Smooth armor transformed into scaly hide. Countless barbed spikes sprouted into being. In heartbeats, the black knight was gone. In his place stood a long-limbed fiend, its muzzle wrinkled into a rictus, displaying a mouthful of teeth sharp as broken glass.

Ren scrambled to his feet, calling the dagger Left back to his hand with a mental command. As it pulled free of the monster, black ichor gushed from the wound. The fiend shrieked.

“No one has ever caused me such pain! You will die for that, human.” The fiend extended long dark talons. “Die!” It lunged toward the ranger.

Ren cast a quick glance at Daile. Her face was white with fear. He swallowed hard, and thrust both of his magical daggers, Right and Left, before him, bracing his arms. The fiend careened into the ranger, gripping him with its spine-covered arms.

The fiend crushed Ren with its embrace, driving its barbs deep into the man’s flesh. How glorious, how satisfying it was, to squeeze the life out of the wretched human. Then, strangely, the fiend felt its fatal embrace weakening. The strength was siphoned from its arms. Gradually, realization dawned. The fiend looked down to spot the two enchanted daggers buried deep in its body. It felt the ichor that was its lifeblood gushing from its wounds.

Hoag stumbled backward. “Mistress, save me!” the monster shrieked in anguish. There was no reply.

The creature toppled to the ground, dead. In moments its body dissolved into a foul, steaming puddle of black liquid.

“Father!” Daile cried as the magical bonds imprisoning her vanished. She rushed to the fallen ranger, kneeling beside him. His face was pale, and he was bleeding from numerous gouges made by the fiend’s spiked hide.

“Daile.” Ren smiled weakly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to journey on without me. The prophecy …” He winced in pain. “The prophecy was right. Only five will enter the red tower after all.”

“No, Father …” She shook her head softly. Words caught in her throat.

He squeezed her hand. “Take Right and Left, Daile. They’re yours now, along with the bow. But there’s something I need to tell you about that bow, something I didn’t say when I gave it to you. It’s …” A fit of coughing wracked the ranger’s broken body.

“Quiet,” Daile whispered, smoothing his graying red-gold hair from his brow.

He gazed at her, smiling. “Did I ever tell you how much you look like your mother?” he asked softly.

Before she could answer, his eyes went dim. He was gone.

She left his body in the shade of a nearby aspen grove. Aspens were the tree most beloved by elves, and she knew their special nature would keep Ren’s body from harm until she could return. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, quelling the ache in her heart. There would be time for mourning later. Right now her friends were in danger.

She slipped Right and Left into her boots and, slinging her bow over her shoulder, started off at a run toward the heart of the ruins.

Kern was the last one out of the maze.

“It wasn’t my fault!” he protested to a sniggering Listle. “The walls kept moving on me. I’m certain of it.”

“Whatever you say, Kern.”

Before Kern could argue his case further, Miltiades approached. Though it was difficult to say the skeletal paladin was excited, there did seem to be an unusual eagerness to his perpetual grin.

“What is it, Miltiades?” Kern asked.

“I’ve found the stairwell.”

Moments later the four adventurers were exploring the half-formed hall where the stairwell was located. There wasn’t much to see besides the rows of stone sarcophagi lining the perimeter. The coffins stood upright, their frozen death masks staring blankly ahead. Listle and Sirana were both weaving spells, trying to detect any dangerous magic that might be guarding the stairwell.

“I don’t think there are any traps,” Listle announced finally, though her tone was less than certain.

“My, that’s reassuring,” Kern snorted.

Listle glared at him. “Well, there is one way we can know for certain if there are.”

“What’s that?”

“You stand over here, Kern.” Listle smiled sweetly. “I’ll just push you down the stairs, then we’ll see what happens.”

Kern nodded absently. He wasn’t really listening to the elf. He found himself shivering. “Do you notice anything strange about those sarcophagi?” he asked the others. “I suppose it’s just my imagination, but their eyes seem to be following me.”

“Do you think yourself so worthy of attention, then?” Sirana asked with a sultry laugh.

He blushed. “Of course not. Like I said, it’s probably just my imagination. Still…”

“Let us examine one to be sure,” Miltiades said. He moved toward the standing sarcophagi. Kern, Listle, and Sirana followed. “Perhaps there is some trick about these—”

“Miltiades, get back!”

The four spun around to see Daile dash into the cathedral, eyes panicked.

“Everybody, get away from those sarcoph—”

She was too late.

Suddenly the lids of four sarcophagi sprang open with a groan. Dozens of skeletal hands reached out with uncanny swiftness, clutching at the four adventurers, who struggled in vain.

“Daile, what’s happening?” Kern shouted in terror. He had the horrifying sensation that he was reliving a dream.

“Let him go!” the young ranger screamed, using the dagger called Right to hack at the arms that clutched Kern. It was to no avail. Another sarcophagus opened. Long, spindly limbs sprang out to engulf Daile. The skeletal arms inexorably dragged the adventurers into the waiting shadows of the five sarcophagi. Then the stone lids slammed shut, cutting off their cries of protest.

The half-formed cathedral was silent once again.

The day after Kern and his companions set off for the ruins of the red tower, Evaine decided it was time to embark on a mission of her own.

She rose in the cold of predawn and, teeth chattering, hastily donned thick woolen breeches and a tunic of her favorite mossy green. Deftly, she bound her long chestnut hair into a braid, winding it in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. As she did, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a teardrop-shaped mirror. A gaunt, ghostly pale face with deep, shadowed eyes peered back at her. She still bore the scars of her astral battle with the guardian of the twilight pool, but she had waited as long as she dared —too long perhaps. She would just have to be strong enough.

From the tiny pocket dimension that served as her spellcasting chamber, she gathered the ingredients she would require to work her spells: many-colored crystals, iridescent powders, and small, neatly folded parchment packets filled with herbs. These she placed in a small pack, adding her copper brazier and—carefully wrapped in oiled leather—her spellbook. She remembered to grab a golden brooch set with a single ice-clear jewel, the twin to the magical gem she had given Miltiades. This she pinned to her tunic.

A quick look around told her she had forgotten nothing. She descended the glowing spiral staircase into the warm main room of her log-walled dwelling. Gamaliel was waiting for her. The great cat sat before the fire, tail wrapped around his paws. His eyes were narrow, green-gold slits.

Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing, Evaine, the cat growled in the sorceress’s mind.

“As you like, Gam,” she murmured pleasantly. Inwardly she steeled herself for an argument.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not laughing.

“Don’t blame me if you have a poor sense of humor,” Evaine replied flippantly. She banished the shimmering stairway with a snap of her fingers.

Gamaliel’s whiskers twitched in agitation. You aren’t well enough to travel, Evaine, let alone cast your detection spells—or face the guardian of the pool of twilight.

Evaine knelt beside her familiar. “Gam, I could tell you that I’m fine,” she said solemnly. “I could tell you that I’m as strong as I’ve ever been. But that would be a lie. I’ve never lied to you, Gamaliel, and I don’t intend to start now.” She sighed, her heart heavy. “You may be right, of course. I may be in grave peril if I try to confront the guardian of the twilight pool in my current state. But years ago I vowed never to rest while there was a pool yet to be destroyed, and ever since then I’ve tried to abide by that oath. I can’t betray my vow, Gam. What good would I be if I did?”

The great cat regarded her silently for a long moment, his green-gold eyes glowing.

Don’t you have some more things to pack? he said at last.

The sorceress laughed, feeling better than she had in a long while. “That I do.” A slight frown touched her lips. “Wait a minute,” she said with gentle indignation. “Who’s the master here, anyway?”

Gamaliel did not reply, so Evaine decided not to press the question. After all, she decided, she might not care for the answer.

She briskly gathered some other items. Fire she could call up with a spell, and most of the food required the land—and Gamaliel’s hunting abilities—would provide. She placed a few extra clothes and some hardtack in a magical sack that grew no heavier despite its contents, such being the useful nature of its enchantment. She belted a knife forged of sharp dwarven steel at her hip and donned her heavy sheepskin coat. Hefting her small pack, she grinned at Gamaliel.

“Ready?”

Of course. Unlike you humans, cats do not need to pack before they can begin a journey. Our coats and weapons come permanently attached. He extended his razor-sharp claws for emphasis. It’s much more convenient that way.

Being a practical-minded woman, Evaine had to agree.

Leaving the snug house behind, they set off northward. Bare winter branches stood out against the rose-colored morning sky, tracing dark shapes in the air like a jumble of arcane runes. Evaine and Gamaliel quickly fell into their accustomed traveling habits. The great cat loped soundlessly ahead, scouting the terrain for danger, while the sorceress kept her eyes open for any interesting herbs or bushes. Though most plants of magical use were dormant in winter, there were a few of value that could be gathered at this time of year. Into Evaine’s pouches went juniper berries, holly leaves, and snowheart blooms. These last were rare crimson flowers that grew only beneath a shroud of newly fallen snow.

Come dusk, Evaine was thoroughly exhausted. Her joints felt stiff and cold despite her heavy coat. Yet the day had gone more smoothly than she might have expected. She and Gamaliel had made good time, putting nearly a half-dozen leagues behind them. The fresh air and exercise seemed to invigorate her. Her cheeks showed patches of pink where shadows had gathered only that morning.