Pools of Darkness (25 page)

“Put away your toys, weaklings. They won’t work on me. Besides, I’ve come to make you an offer.”

Many of the clerics raised their hammers and flails to attack the skeleton, but one of the younger priests, eager to parley, stepped forward, asking, “What terms do you bring us? What guarantees do you make?”

On the other side of the city, the battle was boiling.

The tree-minions of Moander, reduced by a few hundred by the weight of catapult rocks, boldly advanced to the walls of the city. Rooted feet stomped forward in menacing strides. Each tree-thing stood over ten feet tall and dripped an oozing, fetid, poisonous sap. Each creature bore a layer of fungus spores that puffed up in a sickly cloud every time it was hit. Each plant-horror was armed with branchy javelins.

“Masks up! Beware the javelins!” The cry echoed down the wall from captains and warriors alike. Each man pulled a woolen mask over his head to prevent the spores from being inhaled.

Shal had ordered the masks prepared immediately after she’d rescued Tarl and his comrades from the evil forest. After learning of the spores and poisons emitted by the trees, she had experimented with numerous forms of headgear to protect the warriors. The women of Phlan had spent every minute of the day and night spinning, weaving, and sewing the masks. All the wizards of Phlan had been ordered to magically heat sand and create thin glass lenses to allow the wearers to see. Within a few days, every warrior, cleric, and wizard in Phlan was outfitted with a special mask.

Dozens of these outfitted wizards—from apprentices to grand masters—were strung along the walls. Protected by the crenellations and the shields of assisting warriors, they cast their deadliest blasts. Shal and two other mages floated along the top of the wall, directing the efforts into a unified attack and casting their own potent energies.

Fire spells in the forms of waves, sheets, and exploding spheres blazed forth in a terrifying but beautiful rainbow. The searing heat that would have roasted an ordinary army to cinders proved ineffective against the tree-monsters. The wizards changed tactics and instead cast narrow cones of blazing fire that hung in the air for long minutes, broiling the horrid tree-minions. The sustained flames dried the poisonous wet ooze of the trees, charred bark and leaves, and roasted the creatures to ash. The unearthly stench that arose smelled like something straight from the Nine Hells. The minions shrieked and writhed, trying to move forward. But the huge, squirming tree-monsters soon turned to twisted pillars of ash.

Marcus watched from on high, furious. “How dare they use such flame against my army!” He bellowed in fury, forgetting that his magically enhanced voice could be heard all over the battlefield. “I’ll teach them what real magic is. Those pathetic mages may think they’re powerful, but let them taste the magic of a Red Wizard of Thay!” His crimson robes billowed as he reined the snorting nightmare around and swooped down over the heads of his spellcasters.

“You wizards and clerics, advance on those infidels and dispel their pitiful magics. What do you think I’m paying you for? Get busy!” Marcus’s voice boomed instructions.

Ston, Tulen, and the other defenders on the wall snorted throaty laughs upon hearing the rantings of the enemy leader. Few things were better than knowing your foe was unhappy with the turn of the battle.

An ancient, grizzled warrior named Rakmar lifted his mask to spit over the wall, aiming at one of the minions. He was well over seventy years old and should have been retired to easier work, but Rakmar had a special duty in the most critical battles. No one could rival Rakmar’s skill in the task he had performed for over forty years. He ordered his team to ready their catapult for an extra-long shot. Then his graveled voice barked out the order his men had been waiting for all day. “Load Big Brors into the dish, boys. I’m going to hit me some wizards.” The men cheered and busied themselves around the catapult.

Big Brors was rolled out. It was an enormous, cone-shaped sculpture of solid granite. Ten men were needed to load it into the catapult. No one could aim Brors like Rakmar. The old warrior had a sixth sense about that weapon of granite death.

Rakmar patted the cone fondly. Over its many years of battle, the boys of the catapult team had lovingly named the huge rock and had chiseled and painted personal mementoes on its coarse surface. Now the warrior ran a callused hand over forty years of memories and victories. Used in every battle, Big Brors was always collected after the skirmish was over and returned to this same catapult unit.

Rakmar carefully checked the position of the granite cone in its cradle. With the experience of four decades, the old warrior scurried around the catapult, adjusting cranks and levers, checking and rechecking, until he was sure everything was just right. Grunting in satisfaction, he stepped back and told the boys to wait for the signal to fire.

Ston and Tulen took turns watching their post and the catapult team, anticipating the rock’s flight and glorious devastation. The catapulters stood silently and nervously, awaiting their moment of glory.

Back on Marcus’s side of the field, wizards and clerics surged forward. They were not a united group; it was every man for himself as each wizard hustled to be the first to create a spectacular effect that would attract the attention and gratitude of Marcus. Fellow spellcasters were as much the enemy to these selfish men and women as were the citizens of Phlan. Their desire for fame prevented them from working as a team and instead fostered a dire rivalry.

One evil wizard, Thar Kuul, had risen to a high station in the red mage’s forces. He despised Marcus and thought him a fool, but the Red Wizard of Thay was the best chance for power anywhere in Faerun. Thar would play anyone’s game if it meant success in the end. This dark wizard had even coerced the pit fiend into teaching him some powerful spells. After several lengthy conversations with the fiend, Thar Kuul had decided he would some day take control of the fiend from Marcus and dispose of the little Red Wizard. That was an endeavor for the future. Right now, he had to play obedient servant.

Thar charged forward in determination. He would show the clerics and wizards around him what a truly talented wizard could do. He had selected his most powerful and most spectacular spells for the occasion.

As the dark wizard neared Phlan’s walls, he immediately noticed the blackened stone. Oil, he assumed. The defenders obviously planned to torch the walls during the assault. But he knew a spell that would extinguish that effect before the pathetic defenders even knew what happened. Striding ahead of the pack of spellcasters and moving around the stupid ogres in his path, Thar Kuul murmured and gestured. The five walls of fire that stood as barriers to the tree-minions were instantly snuffed out.

“There, that alone should get Marcus’s attention. Now I can cast the spell that will—”

He looked up suddenly as a whistling sound caught his attention. But the wizard never saw what hit him. In his haste to outshine his companions, Thar had made himself a target. His scheming brain was now pinned to the ground by a two-hundred pound, cone-shaped rock.

Marcus was concentrating deeply on the battle, growing agitated. His tree-minions were pounding on the stone walls, but the trees’ tentacles were slipping and couldn’t get a firm grip. Worse, the trees were dying by the scores as fire, burning oil, arrows, and rocks rained down on them.

Marcus refused to be daunted. “No matter. There are untold numbers of tactical maneuvers to destroy walls. I’ll order the flanking movement, then personally supervise the storming of the wall.”

He turned the nightmare toward the mercenary contingent of his army, bellowing out orders. His enhanced voice was impossible to ignore. “You humans and ogres—advance on the northern gate and stir things up there. If the fight gets too dangerous, retreat. I plan to personally lead the remainder of the army as it breaches the wall!” The mass of sword-swinging monsters and mercenaries instantly mobilized.

Back on the wall of Phlan, a chuckling cleric gave new instructions to waiting messengers.

Marcus mentally ordered the tree-minions to form living ladders of vegetation. Hundreds of the tree-creatures wound themselves together and thousands of evil soldiers began to climb slowly upward and onto the walls of Phlan. Tarl shouted orders for the clerics to attempt spells of control on the trees, but to no avail. Defenders slashed away with swords and spears to no effect. Halberds and axes chopped into mouldy bark, but too many monsters were scaling the walls.

Trumpets were sounded and entire wall sections abandoned. Tarl now shouted the order for Phlan’s secret defense tactic.

As the mass of Moander’s tree-minions crawled over the walls in victory, Marcus shouted at them gleefully.

“I’ve done it! I’ve beaten them! Now I, Marcus of Thay, own that city. My troops will scale all the walls. By tomorrow, I will be a demigod and these pathetic humans will bow to me!”

Far below Marcus, a brown-robed wizard had witnessed Thar’s death. Porter was next in line for command, and now he rejoiced at his good fortune. He planned to lead the wizards to the outer limits of catapult range, allow the defenders to fire one volley, then order a retreat. But as his unit approached the gate, he was surprised that not a single arrow greeted them.

Porter scanned the walls, seeing no one. During their approach, he had seen hundreds of defenders running from the gates to help defend against the tree-minions. The wall was all but deserted now, even though that seemed unlikely.

“Mage Whills, fly up there and scan the towers. Make sure your spell against arrows is working.”

Whills took a moment to activate a spell, then flew onto the wall above the Death Gates. “No one here, sir. They’re all fighting Moander’s lot!”

Porter was furious. This brief attack wasn’t supposed to end like this. There was nothing here to fight! He wanted to retreat, but knew what would happen. Marcus would be furious if one of his leaders challenged his strategy.

The massive Death Gates were intact, magically reconstructed after Marcus’s last attack. The doors were locked. Two quick spells popped them open with two loud thuds. Porter had made his decision.

“Alright, men! Let’s charge in and see what we find. Ogres, trolls, advance! We’re right behind you.”

As thousands of pounds of monster flesh surged into the long tunnel, a telepathic message reached the men and wizards under the trap doors of the empty towers on both sides of Death Gates. A warrior-priest of Tyr swinging a glowing blue hammer was the first to leap out of the hidden trap door. Hundreds of warriors surged out of the hidden rooms, raining death on the monsters in the tunnel. Tarl’s hammer seemed to take on a life of its own, striking on every swing and killing with every blow.

In his ecstasy, Marcus barely noticed the woman astride a magnificent horse riding toward him in the sky. The female and her mount were both bathed in a faint, violet glow. “Who dares come to spoil my victory?”

“I dare!” Shal screamed, “You stole my city and you have assaulted my people. Today, you die!”

She raised her arm, and a sparkling purple bolt of energy arced from her hand to strike Marcus.

It bounced away harmlessly.

“Tarnelth, whocsom, pellarz!” Marcus’s voice boomed.

Gale-force winds buffeted Shal and her magical horse. Her hair and cloak whipped about, but the battering winds caused no real harm. The beast snorted, yet easily controlled its flight.

A flick of Shal’s wrist created a dark purple mist under the nightmare’s hooves. The swirling, turbulent vapor looked oily and deadly even to the Red Wizard. Marcus turned the nightmare and flew higher, thinking he would escape the mist. But the vapors followed as if they had a mind of their own.

A red fireball and a lightning bolt surged out of his hands toward Shal, whizzing past harmlessly.

The sorceress was shocked at his ability to cast two spells at once, but didn’t show her surprise to the enemy. She told herself to investigate that talent later.

Through the winds that still buffeted her, Shal cast disintegration magic at the nightmare. The powerful spell turned the corrupt creature to dust. Marcus hadn’t bothered to protect his mount against such spells. He began to sink into the purple mist beneath him.

A quick wave of his hand stopped his fall, and the wizard now hovered on wings of flame. He grimaced and shrieked the words of a new spell. Behind Shal, an inky spectral form took shape.

Expecting the worst, the sorceress took her best shot and cast her most powerful spell.

“I’m blind!” Marcus screamed in fear. “Gallen tor supto!”

Marcus vanished. In his panic, he had teleported himself back to the red tower.

The deadly purple fog dissipated harmlessly.

What had been a desperate moment for Phlan was turning in its favor. Shal had temporarily defeated Marcus, leaving the monsters, tree-minions, and hired soldiers without a leader. Brittle was busy following his own course of action.

The minions of Moander, once perfect warriors, were now snapping like dry kindling. Although tireless and deadly, they lacked intelligence. When ordered to scale the wall, they had succeeded with some effort. The entire army now stood between the outer and inner walls—walls coated with black, sticky oil. Now those same walls were set ablaze by the defenders of Phlan. The intense heat dried and cracked the protective ooze coating the trees, withered leaves, and ignited branches. As the mindless minions stood between the two walls, branches and trunks ignited, charred, and toppled.

A deafening clatter and rattling arose. Three hundred and one skeletons swinging huge axes in their bony hands rushed to the attack. The skeletons gave no thought to the fungus or poisons of the tree-monsters. They ignored the searing heat of the flaming walls; the stone-hard bones of their skeletal frames felt nothing. Every warrior chopped at the minions of Moander while the abominable tree-creatures mindlessly waited for orders that should have come, but never did.

Marcus had abandoned his troops, leaving them to die on the field. High in the red tower, the wizard’s rantings, still magically enhanced, were punctuated only by the insults he hurled at the pit fiend. He ordered the fiend to restore his vision. The tower shook to its foundation, rattling the city of Phlan far below.