Pool of Twilight (27 page)

She followed the faint whispering, and moments later peered from behind a juniper bush to see a peculiar sight.

Trooper sat on an old stump, bathed in a faint blue radiance. The old paladin seemed to be engaged in a conversation with someone, though who it might be, Listle couldn’t say. She didn’t see anyone else in the clearing.

“Are you really certain he’s worth the trouble?” Trooper muttered, his beard bristling. “Oh, he’s brave enough, and strong, too. And I’ll grant you that brains have never been a paladin’s primary requisite. But he doesn’t have much faith in himself, you know.”

The old man bent his head, as though listening to some reply. He scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. “True enough. Faith can be taught. But it isn’t easy, and it takes time. A great deal of time, in fact, and that’s something I really don’t have too much of these days.”

Trooper paused. Finally he sighed, nodding. “Well, it goes against my better judgment,” he growled. “However, I’ll do it if you think I should. But you owe me for this one, Tyr!”

Listle’s mouth opened in a silent gasp as she hastily away. Had she heard properly?

“That’s ridiculous, Listle,” she whispered to herself as she slipped soundlessly through the trees. “He couldn’t have been talking to … to a…”

Shivering, she left that thought unfinished as she hurried back to camp.

Tarl stood on a balcony high in the temple of Tyr, breathing the wintry air. He turned his gaze out over where he knew the city lay, though all his eyes saw was perpetual darkness. Twilight had fallen, he knew, for he could no longer feel the faint warmth of the sun on his face. But he welcomed the numbing cold of night.

There had been no news of Kern or the others in the last days. No omen that might hint whether his son was alive or dead. Nothing. Anton said again and again that they must have faith, but Tarl found faith to be slight comfort. Faith could not whisk his son to his side. Faith could not heal Shal, who lay slowly, inexorably dying in her chamber.

Perhaps he would not feel so bad, Tarl thought, if there were anything he could do. Anything. But he was powerless. Nothing he did could wake Shal from her endless slumber or drive the shadows from her face. Nothing he could do would help Kern on his quest for the hammer. He couldn’t even be of much help to his fellow clerics, who scurried about the temple like frightened mice, trying to fortify the structure against the dark onslaught Sister Sendara had foretold. Though he had tried to provide some assistance, he had only gotten in the way.

Tarl gripped the balustrade with white-knuckled hands. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for an end—some end—to come.

Finally, even the cold of the night was too much for him to bear. It was time to go back inside, to sit by Shal’s side.

Yet as Tarl started to step away from the balustrade, he saw something that made him hesitate. Something that moved in the veil of darkness.

He frowned. There it was again—a small splotch that was a deeper jet against the blackness of his vision. He blinked, wondering if this was some figment of his imagination. But no, even as he watched, the spot grew, like a far-off object edging closer.

“This cannot be,” Tarl whispered as the dark blob grew larger yet. “How can I see something unless it is …”

Realization washed over him.

Magic!

Whatever was approaching the temple was magical in nature. As he had learned these last years, magic was one thing his otherwise useless eyes could discern. But what was the magical shape?

Tarl leaned forward, concentrating on the dark cloud. As it neared, he realized that it was composed of dozens of smaller objects, each surrounded by a faint crimson aura. As the swarm of objects drew closer, the shapes became clearer with each passing second.

“By Tyr above,” Tarl gasped.

The dark cloud was not made up of objects, but of fiends.

Tarl waited for the temple’s magical alarms to sound. The shadow fiends were flying swiftly upon their midnight-dark wings. They were mere minutes away from the temple’s walls. Surely some of the other clerics had seen them by now.

But the night remained deathly silent.

“Sound the alarm,” Tarl gritted between his teeth. “Are you all asleep? Sound the alarm!”

No hue-and-cry rang out. Then Tarl realized the obvious. The others could not see the shadow fiends. They were invisible to mundane eyes. Without further hesitation, he turned and dashed inside. He bashed his shins against an unseen chair but, ignoring the pain, stumbled on. He caught his shoulder on the door frame, and pain exploded in his chest, but he ignored that, too. He had to warn the others. Careening down the corridor like a madman, he began shouting.

“Beware, clerics of Tyr! A foe comes in the night! Beware!”

When he came to the stairs leading to the main hall, he would have fallen and broken his neck had not Sister Corenna, a cleric of middle years, been there to catch him. He explained what he had observed in short, gasping sentences. An intelligent woman with nerves as steely as her eyes, Sister Corenna quickly helped Tarl downstairs and called for order among the small throng of clerics that had responded to Tarl’s cry.

“Shadow fiends approach the temple,” Tarl announced urgently. “We must act. They will be here in mere minutes.”

“Shadow fiends?” Brother Dameron asked. The stout, round-faced young cleric wore a skeptical expression. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Are you certain you’re not mistaken, Brother Tarl?”

Tarl caught the note of condescension in the scholarly cleric’s voice.

“What is it, Brother Dameron?” Tarl snarled. “Do you think me a blind simpleton, is that it? An old man who’s lost his wits as well as his sight?”

Dameron’s jaw worked soundlessly in surprise at the intensity in Tarl’s voice.

“Forgive us, Tarl,” Anton said. The grizzled patriarch’s voice was grave and calm. “You have caught us off guard, that is all. Quickly, tell us what should we do.”

“They are creatures of darkness,” Tarl said without hesitation. “We must strengthen the temple’s defenses against the substance that forms them.”

He pulled his ceremonial hammer from his belt and, despite his unseeing eyes, swung it in a precise arc. It struck a green stone circle in the center of the hall’s floor. Under the force of his powerful blow, the circle of stone sank into the floor with a hissing sound. There was a loud grinding overhead as seven lines appeared on the inside surface of the bronze dome. Like the petals of a huge, metallic flower, the dome split into seven sections, each receding slowly into the temple’s walls to reveal a perfect circle of night sky.

“What have you done, Tarl?” Dameron cried in horror. “If foes do approach, you’ve just opened the temple for them!”

“Walls are no proof against creatures of shadow,” Tarl replied intently. “It is with magic that we will stop these beings, and for that we must have a clear view.” He raised his warhammer toward the circle of the sky. “Now, clerics of Tyr!”

Even as his voice rang out, inky forms swirled out of the night. As one, the assembled clerics began their resonant chanting. A pale blue nimbus sprang into existence across the circular opening above the temple. Several of the shadow fiends approached the nimbus and instantly burst into flame as they breached the holy light. But several of the creatures were too fast and had already slipped through.

These swooped down, landing lightly on three-toed claws. The crimson outlines of the magical fiends burned Tarl’s vision. He swung his warhammer, its metal slicing through one of the creatures. The creature, ripped to shreds, quickly evaporated.

Sister Corenna cried out as one of the fiends slashed at her back. Its head burst apart a moment later, crushed by Anton’s hammer.

A third fiend lifted Brother Dameron bodily and hurled him through the air. The rotund cleric struck a marble column. He slumped to the floor and did not rise again.

The fiend whirled, its dark wings beating in agitation. Suddenly a hammer flashed through the air, ripping through the shadow fiend. It hissed in pain, then melted into thin air.

Sister Corenna slumped back to the floor. The hand that had thrown the hammer was drenched in blood, but her face bore a look of grim satisfaction.

“Louder, clerics of Tyr!” Tarl yelled as the shadow fiends fought the protective blue nimbus with their dark magic. The fiends surged forward as the holy light flickered. Then Tarl added his deep baritone to the combined voices of his brethren. The nimbus glowed with renewed energy, and a half-dozen more shadow fiends shrieked as they were consumed by brilliant flame.

So it went for the remainder of the long, dark night.

At times the voices of the clerics grew hoarse, their chanting faltered, and the shadow fiends nearly penetrated through the temple’s protective barrier. But time and time again, Tarl’s voice rang out above the others, and in his example the other clerics found a reservoir of strength in their hearts. They chanted on.

Then came the first golden rays of dawn.

The shadow fiends writhed in torment as the light of the sun transfixed them, piercing them with its burning rays. They shrieked vile curses as their bodies dissipated, then their screams faded into a sigh on the wind. A golden radiance filled the temple. The morning light had banished the shadows of midnight.

The temple’s clerics sank to the floor, exhausted. The tide of evil had been stemmed, and all knew it was due to Tarl’s strength and bravery.

“It’s good to have you back, Brother Tarl,” Anton said gruffly, clapping a hand on Tarl’s shoulder.

Tarl smiled despite himself. You were right, as always, Shal, he said inwardly, hoping that, somehow, she could hear him.

“Do not rejoice overmuch, clerics of Tyr!” a cracked voice called out, casting a pall of silence over the hall. The ancient priestess, Sister Sendara, hobbled into the room, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff.

“You have defeated a great evil this night, it is true,” the priestess proclaimed. “But know that this battle was but the first drop of rain in the dark storm that is to sweep over us. Know this, and be ready!” With that the ancient priestess retreated back into her chamber.

A somber quiet filled the hall along with the morning sunlight.

“Close your eyes, Kern.” Trooper’s voice was a low murmur in his ear. “Open your heart and listen to the wind.”

Kern squeezed his eyes shut, doing his best to obey the elder paladin’s words. The travelers stood in the middle of a high plain, ringed on all sides by saw-toothed mountain ranges, gleaming white with snow. Wind hissed through the dry brown grass, making a beautiful yet forlorn sound.

“A palfrey is a fine riding horse,” Trooper went on softly, “but a true paladin must have a steed worthy of riding into battle. A charger, Kern. Let the wind carry your call for a charger.”

Kern’s brow furrowed in concentration. He wasn’t exactly certain how this was supposed to work. He had heard stories, of course, telling how famous paladins summoned snorting, stamping chargers to their sides with little more than wishful thoughts and prayers to Tyr. However, he had always assumed they were just that—fireside tales.

Trooper had been all too happy to correct him. The weathered paladin told how he had summoned his own dun-colored stallion, Lancer, many years before, and Miltiades had in turn recounted how he had called his first charger, long years ago. Now it was Kern’s turn. He tried to imagine his message ringing out over the plains, all the way to the distant mountains. A charger, Tyr, he thought. Let a charger heed my call.

After a long moment, his eyes blinked open.

“Now what?” he asked.

Trooper gave him a quizzical look, then shrugged his thin shoulders. “Now we journey on. If a steed has heard your call, it will find us.”

“If it didn’t run as fast as it could in the other direction, that is,” Listle added impertinently.

Kern groaned. “Listle, don’t you have something better to do than make fun of me constantly?”

The elf thought about that for a moment. “No,” she decided finally, shooting him a winsome smile.

Kern sighed. “Just checking,” he said gloomily.

The four rode on across the frozen plain. No more than a quarter hour had passed when Kern heard something rustling through a nearby stand of tall, dry grass. His heart leaped in his chest. Could it be his charger? He dismounted, peering into the high grass expectantly.

With a snort, something burst into the open.

Listle’s trilling laughter rang out brightly. “I don’t know, Kern,” she said with mock gravity. “Don’t you think it might be difficult to joust with your heels dragging the ground?”

“Very funny!” Kern snapped hotly. He glared downward as the beast he had summoned oinked happily, nuzzling its bristly snout against his leg.

“I have only one question, Kern,” Trooper said, his eyes sparkling. “Do you think you should ride it or roast it?”

“I’m not laughing,” he grouched. Kern shook his leg, trying to get away from the pig. It grunted and trotted after him, its pink eyes shining with affection.

It took the better part of an hour and all the hazelnuts left in Kern’s saddlebags to convince the pig to trot back into the tall grass. Finally, the four rode on.

It was nearing sundown when the riders halted on the edge of the plains. They made camp in a grove of oak trees at the foot of a high mountain. While the others busied themselves, Kern wandered to the edge of the grove. The westering sun had set the plains afire with color. A cold wind rushed down from the mountains, tangling his red hair.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he closed his eyes, once again sending out the call.

It was hard to forget Listle’s laughter, or the amusement in Trooper’s wrinkled eyes. Kern clenched his hands into fists. He had to show them that he could do it. Beside, he thought, there wouldn’t be any witnesses if he failed this time.

He cast his thoughts to the wind, calling out with all his spirit. How long he stood there, he wasn’t certain. But when he finally opened his eyes, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and purple twilight was filling the arms of the mountains.