Pool of Twilight (33 page)

More zombies lurched mindlessly toward the gates. They, too, were impaled by the huge stone thorns and consumed by holy fire. Still more followed suit.

The clerics chanted on. As one tired, slumping to his knees, another stepped forward to take his or her place. Through it all, Tarl’s voice never faltered.

The zombies continued their mindless advance, letting out inhuman screams as the spikes rent their undead flesh and lightning coursed through their bodies, streaming out of their wounds and blankly staring eyes.

The clerics chanted on, their voices growing ragged.

Suddenly the mass of zombies parted before the gate. A huge fire giant strode through their ranks. His undead body was whole, but instead of eyes, in each socket was lodged the head of a dwarf. Screaming orders, the dual dwarf heads directed the lumbering body of the giant. The towering giant gripped two of the columns in its enormous hands.

A dozen spikes shot out, piercing the giant’s hands. Holy magic crackled along the length of the monster’s arms. Flesh sizzled and bubbled, filling the air with its stench. But the magic was not enough. The giant’s arms tensed. The two columns shattered in a spray of stone, clearing a space before the gate. The giant reached out, gripping the top of the iron portal.

Tarl, hearing the collapse, cried, “Louder, clerics of Tyr!” but this time their chants were to no avail.

The fire giant grunted; the dual dwarf heads shrieked orders. The monster’s muscles bulged until they seemed ready to burst. Suddenly the sound of rending metal shattered the air. Shards of iron flew in all directions. The gates were sundered.

The clerics of Tyr stared in horror as the fire giant stepped through, the dwarf heads in its eye sockets laughing evilly.

Even then, Tarl Desanea stood strong.

He could see the magically animated zombie clearly. In one swift move, he hurled his warhammer. It spun through the air and struck the giant directly between its hideous dwarf-eyes. The fire giant’s head exploded in a spray of rotting meat. It tottered and fell backward, crushing dozens of zombies to pulp beneath its bulk.

“Retreat to the temple!” Tarl shouted.

Hastily the clerics retreated, hauling Anton and the others who had collapsed back with them.

“What of you, Brother Tarl?” Sister Sendara called out when it became clear that Tarl did not intend to budge from the twisted wreckage of the gates.

“My place is here,” the white-haired cleric said fiercely.

The old priestess only nodded, understanding in her dark eyes. She dashed into the temple with the others.

“Hurry, Kern,” Tarl whispered softly, hoping somehow, somewhere, his son could hear him. “Wherever you are, you must hurry.”

As the zombies rushed forward, jabbering with wicked glee, Tarl held up a single hand.

“By Tyr, none shall pass!”

Suddenly a shining wall of transparent blue fire appeared, sealing the gaping breach in the temple’s wall. The zombies recoiled from it. They could not pass through the holy light. Tarl clenched his jaw, concentrating. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his furrowed brow, rolling in rivulets down his face. He could feel Tyr’s strength flowing through him like liquid fire. A strange elation began to fill him; a fierce grin spread across his face. His days of self-pity and mourning were gone. All that mattered was his belief in Tyr and in justice.

By all the gods of light, Shal, Tarl shouted inwardly, I will not give up! Somehow, I will hold on!

Zombies shrieked in rage as by the dozens they tried to pass through the gates and perished. The magical barrier did not waver. Tarl’s faith sustained him against their onslaught But gradually, the fire in his blood burned hotter and hotter.

Inside the temple’s portico, Anton staggered weakly to his feet. He gazed between the marble columns. Awe filled him at what he saw.

“How long… how long do you think he can hold the wall?” he asked in hoarse amazement.

“Until the magic consumes him,” Sister Sendara answered sharply, “and he dies.”

Kern and his companions were up with the cold gray dawn.

Daile drew her previously miniaturized mount from a pocket and set it on the ground. Miltiades’ white stallion breathed on the figurine, and instantly Daile’s roan mare was snorting and pawing at the ground. Unfortunately, Evaine and Gamaliel were without mounts.

“I can run as swiftly as any horse,” Gamaliel said with a laugh. Shimmering, his body remolded itself into his feline form. It was Listle who came up with a solution for Evaine. The elf gave her horse to the sorceress while she herself rode behind Trooper on Lancer’s broad back. This was much to the elder paladin’s chagrin, however, for it was clear after the first mile that Listle was a definite saddle hog.

“All your squirming is going to make me sick,” he growled to the elven illusionist. “Can’t you sit still?”

“No,” she replied sweetly.

The old paladin grunted in exasperation. Listle gave a smug smile and wriggled another inch forward on the saddle, claiming still more territory for herself.

Trooper bent down and pretended to scratch his mount’s ears. “All right, Lancer,” he whispered surreptitiously to the big stallion. “I’ll hold onto the saddle horn while you start kicking….”

“Elves have very good ears, Trooper,” Listle warned.

The paladin hurriedly sat up straight, a guilty look on his face.

Kern shook his head as he watched this exchange. He could almost believe that this was the old Listle he saw, unpredictable and light-hearted, smiling and joking as if she had never spoken of Sifahir’s tower or of what had happened to her there. Almost. Except that every once in a while, when she must have thought he wasn’t looking, she would glance fleetingly in Kern’s direction, sadness in her silvery eyes.

“You can’t love an illusion,” he muttered softly to himself. “Gods, you can’t even get a grip on one!”

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn’t think about Listle. Not now. He had to be ready to face Sirana at the pool.

All morning they made slow progress, ascending a narrow pass between knife-edged peaks, breaking trail through deep drifts of soft, powdery snow. The wind at the summit whipped at them cruelly, and they quickly descended the other side of the pass, riding into a deep valley.

“Are we nearing the pinnacle of stone, Evaine?” Miltiades asked as the sun began its westward trek. The paladin rode close to the sorceress.

“I think so,” she replied. “I would know for certain if I could get a look above the trees.”

“I think I can arrange something,” Daile said a bit mysteriously. Without explanation, the ranger wheeled her horse around and quickly disappeared among the trees.

Kern exchanged a curious glance with the others.

Scant minutes later, Daile caught up with the group. Her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed slightly out of breath.

“I got a glimpse of the spire,” she said excitedly. “It’s no more than an hour’s ride ahead.”

Kern gave the ranger a piercing look. “How do you know, Daile?”

“I… I found a pile of boulders and climbed them,” she said, but this didn’t ring true. However, no one pressed the question.

Before long, the sun slipped behind a mountain, casting a premature gloom over the forest. Finally the pines gave way to rolling alpine tundra, and they espied the pinnacle of stone. It loomed above them, a foreboding sentinel. At the base of the natural basalt spire was a grove of what appeared to be dark, leafless oak trees. But there was something unnatural about the grove.

“I can see through the trees!” Listle exclaimed in surprise.

“Can’t you feel it?” Daile asked, shuddering. ‘They’re not living trees at all. They’re shadows. Dark echoes of the trees that used to grow there.” She swore fiercely. “An abomination.”

“It is the magic of the twilight pool,” Evaine explained. “It pervades the very ground here, perverting all it touches. We must be careful.”

Kern drew the hammer from his belt. “At least there are no monsters here to block our way.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” Trooper noted cuttingly.

“Do you see any monsters?” Kern asked in exasperation.

“No, but that’s not the point.” Trooper scratched his grizzled beard thoughtfully. “I remember a man who might not have been as eager as you to ride into that grove.”

Kern groaned. “I know you’re trying to help, Trooper, but this isn’t really the time for one of your long-winded stories.”

“Nonsense,” the old paladin snorted. “It’s the perfect time. This fellow I’m thinking of was a veteran warrior before you were even a mischievous whim in your parents’ minds. One day we were riding across the Stonelands some leagues to the east of here when we saw a huge white fortress perched high on a hill. I asked him what he thought of the place. He said to me, ‘Well, it’s white on this side.’” The paladin paused, apparently waiting for Kern’s reaction.

“I don’t understand,” Kern said with a frown.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, lad!” Trooper’s bushy eyebrows bristled as if for emphasis. “That’s what it means. Believe what your eyes tell you, but only what they tell you, and no more.”

Kern nodded, realizing his foolhardiness. It seemed there was still much to being a paladin that he had yet to learn. But there was no more time. They had reached the pool. He would just have to do his best to remember the lessons Trooper had taught him these last days, and hope he had learned enough.

The riders dismounted. On foot, they crossed the gray, snow-dusted tundra to the shadow-filled grove of trees. Evaine paused, shutting her eyes and spreading her arms wide. She winced, a flicker of pain crossing her brow.

“I can feel the power of the pool emanating from among the trees,” she said hoarsely. “The entrance to the cavern is somewhere in the grove.”

They stepped among the twisted shadow trees.

“I can still feel the suffering,” Daile murmured. “Everything that perished here did so in great pain.”

Gloom filled the air. Kern could see no more than a dozen paces ahead in the murk. The trees seemed to close in behind them with disconcerting swiftness. It was almost as if the trees had moved to block their escape, Kern thought He quickly discarded the unpleasant notion.

Trooper pulled out an oil-soaked torch, and flint and tinder to light it.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Evaine hissed.

The old paladin froze, then nodded. “You’re right. I doubt they much care for fire.”

“Whom do you speak of?” Miltiades asked, but Trooper did not answer.

They continued on.

Listle looked around nervously, her eyes growing wider by the minute. She began to turn her head this way and that. It felt as if someone—or something—was creeping up from behind them. She felt sure of it. The sensation grew stronger with each passing step.

“There’s something behind us!” she whispered hoarsely.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Trooper growled. “There is magic at work here. Fear lingers on the air, but you have to resist it. We’re only as strong as our weakest link. If you succumb, Listle, we’re all lost.”

She nodded silently, clenching her jaw. She did her best to push the fear from her mind. It wasn’t easy, but if the others could manage, she could as well.

A rough, natural wall of stone loomed before them in the gray air. A jagged opening yawned like a gigantic maw. Evaine did not need to say that this was the entrance to the pool.

The attack came without warning.

A ring of shadow trees closed around them, swinging dark limbs ending in sharp, broken branches.

Kern was knocked from his feet and fell hard to the earth. A tree plucked Daile off the ground. The ranger screamed as she struggled to free herself, but more and more branches snaked out to grip her.

A dozen branches reached for Miltiades. He swung at them with his sword, his blade passing right through the shadow substance of the trees. Quickly he scrambled out of their reach. Evaine chanted the words of a spell. A ball of green lightning appeared in her hand, which she hurled at a knot of shadow trees. The lightning expanded as it flew through the air. It struck the approaching trees dead-on, bursting in a brilliant spray of emerald sparks. The shadow trees marched on, unaffected.

“Let her go!” Kern shouted, gaining his feet and charging the tree that held Daile. He swung the hammer at its trunk. Like Miltiades’ sword, it passed right through the immaterial substance of the tree.

“How can we fight shadows?” Trooper cried. He, too, was having no luck with his sword, and Gamaliel’s claws proved no more effective against the shadow trees.

“I have an idea,” Listle shouted. “Everyone, hold your weapons high!”

Kern didn’t know what the elf intended, but there was no time to question her. The circle of trees was tightening around them. He raised the Hammer of Tyr into the air. Trooper and Miltiades did likewise with their weapons.

Listle moved her hands in an intricate pattern. Suddenly all three of the upraised weapons shimmered with magical fire. “Now give them a try,” she said with a grin.

Miltiades turned to an approaching tree. He swung his sword, cleaving an outstretched branch in two. The tree recoiled in agony, the severed branch smoking. With a cry, Kern hurled himself at the tree that held Daile captive. His blow landed squarely on its trunk. The shadow tree shuddered as crimson flame licked up its dark surface.

It still did not let go of Daile.

Kern swore. The flames would consume her along with the tree.

“Daile, you’ve got to break free!” he cried.

“I can’t!” She struggled frantically, to no avail. The flames leaped higher, until Daile was lost to sight. Kern staggered backward in horror as the tree toppled to the ground. In moments the flames died down and vanished. There was nothing left of the shadow tree.

Daile sat on the ground, unhurt, a puzzled expression on her face.

“How—How—” she began.

“It’s illusionary fire!” Listle called out in explanation.

Suddenly Kern understood the logic. “Illusionary fire to burn shadow trees,” he said in amazement. “How did you guess, Listle?”

She regarded him with a strange expression. “I’m the expert on illusions, aren’t I, Kern?”