Pool of Twilight (23 page)

At last, victory is mine! The osyluth shrieked.

Kern closed his eyes. He knew he had just one chance. Come to me! he called out in his mind. Come!

With a rending sound, the Hammer of Tyr wrenched itself from the center of the web. Shining brilliantly, it flew through the air, directly into Kern’s outstretched hand.

He didn’t hesitate. Even as the osyluth’s stinger descended, Kern hurled the hammer with all his might back toward the web. Awakened by the touch of one faithful to Tyr, the hammer burned with fury, striking the web that had imprisoned it moments before, burning it to ashes.

No! The osyluth screamed in terror. This cannot be! Holy blue fire snaked along the thread toward the osyluth, engulfing it. The creature writhed in agony.

Kern summoned the hammer back to his hand; it felt comfortable and right in his grip. “It’s time you joined your master, Bane,” Kern said between clenched teeth.

He swung the Hammer of Tyr. It struck the osyluth full in the chest. With a thunderclap, the fiend burst apart in a spray of bone splinters and shreds of dry, parchmentlike skin.

Kern’s nightmares had come to an end.

The sun sank into a sea of molten bronze clouds behind the jagged stump of the red tower.

Kern sat, exhausted, on a granite boulder, the others around him. The enchantment paralyzing them had vanished when the osyluth died, as had the dark magic animating the horde of undead that filled the cavern and the rest of the red tower. All had collapsed into dust when the web was destroyed.

Listle grinned at Kern. “You know, that wasn’t half bad. For an ogre-brained oaf, that is.”

“You do him a disservice, illusionist,” Sirana chided gently. She laughed, a sound like golden bells. “You are truly a hero, Kern. Do you think I could hold Tyr’s hammer?” Her dark eyes glowed. “I doubt I will ever be this close to so holy a relic again. It would mean a great deal to me.”

“Of course, Sirana,” Kern said. “I could never have gained the hammer without you.” He took the ornate weapon from his belt. In the fading sunlight, fine runes glowed on its flawless steel surface.

Suspicion flared in Listle’s heart. “Kern, don’t do it!” she shouted. Too late.

He held out the hammer.

Without hesitating, Sirana snatched it up with a triumphant expression. “At last, it is mine!” she cried exultantly.

Kern stared at her in astonishment.

Suddenly an expression of agony twisted Sirana’s face. She screamed in pain, dropping the hammer. “By all the blackest gods, it burns!”

Kern and the others watched in horror as Sirana’s lovely coppery skin began to bubble and smoke. Two stumps sprouted from her back, unfurling into vulturelike wings covered with oily black feathers. In moments the beautiful wild mage was gone. In her place stood a creature that was formed only vaguely like a woman. Her body and face were hideously misshapen. Dagger-shaped fangs curved down from her crooked maw, and sharp talons sprouted from her gnarled fingers. Her wings beat furiously, casting off a foul odor.

“A foul erinyes!” Miltiades spoke grimly, raising his sword.

“Oh, vile paladin, don’t you find my true form lovely?” the erinyes Sirana rasped in a croaking voice. “If not, you may blame it on my human father, the Red Wizard Marcus. Human and fiendish blood do not mix well, but I care nothing for beauty. I can don it like a cloak, or cast it aside when I need it no longer. It is power that matters to me!”

“Like the power of Tyr’s hammer,” Kern said, shaking his head in wonderment. He knelt to retrieve the relic from the ground where it had fallen.

The erinyes whirled on him. “Yes!” she hissed. “I will have it, you foolish little puppy. Just as I will have revenge upon you, and all of Phlan as well.” She turned her murderous gaze toward Miltiades. “You will pay for slaying my father. You all will pay!”

“But you have failed, Sirana,” Listle said, her voice hard.

“Think that if you wish, elf,” the erinyes snarled. “But I have a source of power which I have barely begun to tap. You will never defeat the magic of the pool of twilight! Never!” The half-fiend began to back away from the others. “Vengeance will be mine!”

“Don’t let her escape!” Daile cried. She raised her bow, but before she could loose an arrow, the erinyes gripped the bone amulet at her throat. In a puff of smoke, she vanished. Daile’s arrow passed through thin air.

Sirana was gone.

Patriarch Anton watched intently as Sister Sendara, augur of the Temple of Tyr, let the runestones slip through her fine-boned fingers. The timeworn pebbles, each carved with a holy symbol, tumbled onto a round silver plate. The wizened priestess peered at the stones, studying the pattern they made as they fell.

“What do you see in the temple’s future, Sister Sendara?” Anton asked softly. The two were alone in a small candlelit antechamber off the temple’s main hall.

“A moment, Anton,” Sendara scolded. “Fate cannot be rushed.”

Anton smiled at this gentle rebuke. Of all the clerics left in Phlan’s temple of Tyr, only Sendara was older than he was, and only she spoke to him in such a familiar manner. If sometimes she was not as respectful to the patriarch as custom dictated, Anton took no offense. After all, Sendara had been a full cleric of the faith when he could do little more than coo and slumber in his mother’s arms.

“These are ill-tidings,” she said finally in a cracked voice.

“What is it?” Anton glowered at the stones scattered across the silver platter. They meant nothing to his untrained eyes.

“A shadow approaches the temple of Tyr.” Sendara’s dark eyes were like bright chips of obsidian. “A foe who has attacked us once before gathers together even greater strength. Soon we will be awash in a sea of darkness.”

“Are you certain?”

The ancient priestess frowned at Anton, hands on the hips of her soft gray robe. “It’s not as if I’m making this up for dramatic effect, you know.”

Anton sighed deeply, placing his hands on her thin shoulders. “I know, Sendara. I know. It is difficult news to bear, that’s all.”

“As will be the dark days to come.” Sendara extricated herself from his grasp. “But there is more, Anton, and on this the runes speak clearly.” She gazed at the scattered stones again. “Phlan has suffered many foes and many battles in its history. But none have ever been so dire, or so important, as this. We must prevail in our coming trials, or all will be lost.”

“What do you mean, Sendara?”

“I mean, Anton,” she said somberly, “that if the temple of Tyr falls before the hammer is returned, then all of Phlan is doomed. Forever.”

She gathered her runestones and slipped them into a small silken pouch, leaving Anton alone in the antechamber to contemplate her words. A chill had settled in the old patriarch’s bones, but he didn’t know if it was from the wintry air or Sendara’s frightening words. He found himself wondering once again how Kern and the others were faring on their quest for Tyr’s hammer.

A thought struck him. He left the antechamber, making his way through the temple’s upper corridors. It was after vespers, and candles had been lit against the gathering gloom outside. He knocked on a small wooden door and entered a room, finding Tarl Desanea sitting in a stiff-backed chair. His stricken wife lay before him. Tarl had moved her from their tower to the sanctuary of the temple several days before. Anton could hear her breathing, painfully slow in its rhythm.

“It’s dark in here,” the patriarch rumbled softly, lighting a candle.

Tarl shrugged his massive shoulders. “It isn’t as if either Shal or I care.”

Anton winced. Sometimes he forgot that Tarl was blind.

“You didn’t come to evening prayers.” Anton sat in a chair next to his friend.

“I said my prayers here,” Tarl answered. His voice was flat and toneless, but Anton caught the bitterness in it.

Anton took a deep breath. “Have you received any sign that might tell you how the Hammerseeker fares, Brother Tarl? Any word from Tyr?”

Tarl’s blind eyes seemed to gaze out the darkened window. “Nothing. I have felt nothing.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Anton decided to tell Tarl his reason for asking. He recounted the augury that Sister Sendara had just prescribed. If the temple fell, Phlan would be lost.

Tarl turned his sightless eyes toward Anton. “Phlan will be lost?” His haggard voice was almost mocking. “If Kern does not return, Anton, my family will be lost. If Kern perishes, then so will Shal. I will have no one.” He hung his head, at a loss for more words.

Anton’s shaggy eyebrows knitted into a scowl. Lately, Tarl had been sinking into a black despair, but Anton had not realized how hopeless the cleric’s attitude was until now. This could not go on. “There are others besides you and your loved ones to think of, cleric of Tyr,” Anton said sternly. “Regardless of whether the Hammerseeker succeeds or fails, the temple must stand. All of us must be ready to fight the coming battle.”

“Really?” Tarl asked hoarsely. “And how does a blind cleric fight, Anton? Shall I have good Brother Dameron point me toward the enemy and kindly tell me when to start swinging?” He shook his head fiercely. “No. I wish you luck in your battle, Anton, but my own battle is here.” He reached out a hand to smooth Shal’s fiery hair from her pallid brow.

Anton rose from his chair, suddenly angry. “Do not speak to me of your private battles, Tarl. I have watched as, one by one, our brothers and sisters have been struck down by the scourges sent by the gods of evil, the enemies of Tyr. I have watched as foul disease rotted their bodies in the space of an hour, and as searing flames consumed them in an agonizing minute, all because the temple’s aura could no longer protect them.”

Anton clenched his big hands into fists. “The day you survived the scourge sent against you, Tarl, I was filled with joy. It gave me hope that the temple could withstand the evil with which the gods of darkness afflict Phlan. But now I see that I was wrong.” He paused by the door, his face grim. “We have lost you after all, Brother Tarl.”

The patriarch left, shutting the door behind him.

Tarl clenched his hands into fists. Who was Anton to speak to him so, as if he were simply some sulky acolyte feeling sorry for himself? Why couldn’t he see there was nothing Tarl could do to help the temple, let alone his wife and son?

But gradually the rage ebbed in Tarl’s heart.

A remembered voice echoed in his mind. Never forget, husband. You are the same man you always were.

Shal. She would have agreed with Anton, Tarl knew. But her words seemed so distant now, so hollow.

“I am different, Shal,” he whispered to her sleeping form, reaching out a hand to grip hers tightly. “And I will never be the same again.”

In a distant chamber high in the temple, Sister Sendara reached down and removed one of the thirteen runestones scattered on the table before her, slipping it into a black velvet pouch. Now only a dozen remained, leaving the pattern incomplete.

“We are doomed,” she whispered to the night.

She blew out the lone candle, but there would be no sleep for her that night.

Deep beneath the Dragonspine Mountains, a howl of sublime fury echoed off the cavern’s glistening limestone stalactites.

A hideously malformed creature hobbled on clawed feet to the edge of the pool of twilight, greasy black wings flapping feebly in useless agitation. Magical energy still surrounded the creature, the residue of the powerful spell that had, in the space of a heartbeat, carried her to this place.

“I had it!” Sirana screeched. “The Hammer of Tyr. I held it in my hands!”

She lifted her arms and gazed at the burnt, horribly twisted claws that had been delicate hands only moments earlier. Another shriek of rage escaped her lopsided mouth, rattling the very foundation of the mountains.

Something stirred beneath the pool’s dull, metallic waters.

You should have known the holy power of Tyr’s hammer would reject the touch of evil, a voice bubbled up from the murky depths.

“Why did you not see fit to share this valuable information with me?” the half-erinyes wizard ranted.

You did not deign to ask me, sorceress.

“You wretched worm! Do you dare mock me?” She raised a gnarled claw, ready to fling a bolt of magic to the cavern’s ceiling and send a rain of razor-sharp stalactites plunging into the pool.

Never would I mock you, sorceress, the guardian of the pool whined. Come, place your hands in my waters. I will take your pain away.

Momentarily placated, Sirana knelt by the edge of the pool and slipped her hands into the viscous water. Suddenly dozens of glowing flecks appeared, swirling about her wrists like miniature stars. She gasped, feeling a strange tingling in her fingers. She jerked her hands out of the pool.

“What have you done to my—” she began suspiciously. Suddenly she halted, entranced. Her hands! They were whole again. The pain caused by the Hammer of Tyr had vanished. In wonderment, Sirana flexed her fingers. They were smooth and shapely, ending in delicately curved nails as dark and hard-edged as obsidian.

Yet the rest of her was as hideous as ever.

She could use magic to cloak herself with the disguise of beauty, but that could never change the misbegotten form that was her natural condition. Yet the pool could! Ah, how glorious it would be, to be truly beautiful, just like her mother had been.

I cannot, sorceress. Unless, of course, you are willing to submerge yourself in the pool…

For a fleeting moment, Sirana was tempted.

But only for a moment. She laughed, a sound filled with loathing and contempt. “A clever trick, beast. But not clever enough.” She stood, eyes blazing.

“I told you that I will not free you until you have granted me the power I need to destroy Phlan.” Magic crackled away from her in every direction. Smoking chunks of rock fell from the cavern’s roof, exploding like bombs as they struck the pool. Its waters roiled turbulently as the guardian writhed beneath. “Now, I demand that you give me more power, beast. Power enough to destroy Phlan once and for all!”

As you wish, great sorceress! the guardian sniveled. Drink! Drink, and the power shall be yours.