Pools of Darkness (30 page)

“Bring me my spellbooks, please? I’m strong enough to start memorizing spells. I’ve a feeling we’re going to need them soon. If that wizard’s got half a brain, he’s going to change tactics. I need to be ready when he does.”

Tarl mocked a snarl at his wife. “No spellbooks for you, young lady. If you promise to rest all day, you can have your books tomorrow. We all need you to be healthy right now. Especially the little one.” He patted her bulging abdomen lovingly and felt a solid kick, as if the baby were voicing its agreement.

“Celie, you keep an eye on her. If she tries anything—anything at all—you send for me. Two clerics are waiting right outside the door, and they’ll do whatever you ask. I’m going to meet with the council.”

These two mean business, Shal decided, a little glumly. Well, I might as well make the best of it. A day of rest and being stuffed with poppyseed cakes certainly couldn’t hurt me.

Yet as Tarl reached for the door, all the magical lights in the cavern went dark. Candles and fires still gave off feeble light, but otherwise the cave was in total blackness.

Tarl cursed as he galloped down the stairs. The city was nearly out of food and its residents were losing hope. Now the lights were gone, and to the cleric, that meant only one thing—another imminent attack. He grabbed a torch and lighted it as he headed for the council. Perhaps, he grudgingly admitted, the people of the city would be better off escaping the cavern and rebuilding elsewhere. He didn’t know how much more they could bear.

The angry fiend flew into the cavern and over the city of Phlan, basking in the darkness. He should have doused the lights weeks ago.

“Marcus is a fool. Conquering Phlan has nothing to do with taking its walls. The destruction of this city lies in taking its people. When I gain their souls, they will open their gates.”

The fiend flew over the center of the city, past the docks. The winged beast soared to a secluded corner of the cavern’s sea, then concentrated for only a few moments, creating one of its best illusions. The horrid black beast writhed and blurred, then emerged as a white bard named Latenat.

His appearance now was of a kindly, middle-aged bard with a short, white beard and flowing white robes. His voice was gentle and melodic, his demeanor peaceful. The monster’s true nature was visible only in his stern eyes. But looking into his eyes would be difficult if Latenat did his job right.

The disguised creature conjured a small white sailing ship and settled himself into the stern. Although the boat was powered magically, the bard picked up an oar and began to row. The sail hung limply in the still air of the dark cavern.

About fifty yards from the south gate, the boat was spotted by Phlan’s guards. Fires had been lit all along the beach, and flaming rafts had been set out in the water to reveal the presence of any attackers. An alarm was sounded at the first sight of the boat, yet it was allowed to approach the dock.

A squad of hard-eyed guards awaited the stranger.

“Just where did you come from?” the oldest guard demanded.

“I am the white bard, Latenat. I’ve been sent by the gods to lead the people of Phlan to freedom,” the pit fiend purred.

“And I am the great bunny Tootal, sent by the gods to sink your boat. You got any proof?” the guard snorted.

The bard’s voice was smooth and soothing. “My proof is in my songs, friend, in my songs. If you’ll permit me, I’ll sing one for you now.”

“Ain’t no law against singing that I know of, but your tune better be good, or you’ll be eatin’ that stringed thing of yours, young fella.”

The bard smiled serenely, strummed his lute, and began his song:

“I sing a song of praise for Phlan,

The town I’ve come to free,

I sing a song of hope for you,

The folk I would set free.”

The bard continued, verse after verse, as more guards gathered to hear the song. The magic of the pit fiend’s spell wove in and around the people on the dock. Latenat’s ballad of hope made the listeners long for their freedom. The fiend’s spell seeped into the minds of the weary captives, making them vulnerable to his foul message.

All day and long into the night, the mysterious bard tirelessly sang his songs. His smooth voice never grew weary. He traveled to inns and halls and large manor houses, never asking for payment for his performances. Everywhere crowds of people gathered to hear the minstrel and his compelling tunes. It had been months since anyone in Phlan had heard such fine singing.

His message was always the same. In his lilting voice, the bard encouraged the people of Phlan to make their escape while the battlefield was quiet and empty. A few people scoffed at the idea, but many others started packing, convinced the bard was right. They had been in this cavern far too long. Most citizens didn’t know what to think, but they knew anything was better than waiting in the dark for the next deadly attack.

Tanetal’s spell was working. His song lingered in the minds of his listeners. The unity of Phlan’s people was finally beginning to wobble.

The dull light filtering through chalky clouds told the companions that the hour was near noon. But to the battle-weary travelers, the hour felt more like midnight. The early skirmish with the trio of abishai had exhausted Ren, Evaine, and Andoralson. Even Gamaliel, in his barbarian shape, slumped astride his horse rather than scouting ahead in his preferred cat form. Miltiades, always energetic, blazed a trail at the head of the group.

The riders emerged from the forest of sickly trees into a wide clearing. A field that should have been filled with waving grasses, blooming wild flowers, and buzzing bees was instead a sea of gray, brittle weeds. The dead vegetation crunched loudly under the horses’ hooves.

As the riders neared the center of the clearing, Ren suddenly shouted a warning. A black, leathery form dipped out of the sky, enormous talons snatching at Evaine. The sorceress ducked her head into the horse’s mane just in time to avoid the creature’s claws. The beast pulled out of its dive and flapped high into the sky, preparing for another pass.

“Mistress!” Gamaliel called. “It’s not real! It’s just a trick!” The barbarian nudged his horse alongside the sorceress.

Again, the monster swooped down, aiming for Ren. The ranger had drawn his sword and now swung valiantly at the creature. His swing missed, but the beast’s claws found Ren’s shoulder. He screamed in pain as the talons tore open his chain mail, carving out a deep gash.

Miltiades turned his horse, galloping up to Ren. “Close your eyes, ranger. What you see is not an abishai. It cannot harm you.”

Ren snorted and looked skyward. Reaching into his boots, he drew Right and Left.

The beast was already diving again, this time at Andoralson. The druid held his oak shield high, bracing himself.

Ren raised his arm to launch a dagger, but a bony hand gripped his wrist and yanked it down. “Wait. This will be over soon.” The ranger struggled, but the paladin’s grasp held firm.

A fiend bigger than the druid’s horse smashed into the oak shield. But instead of a deafening thump and the scrape of claws, the clearing fell silent. As Ren watched, the abishai turned to black mist and dissolved.

“What in the Nine Hells?” the ranger cursed. Andoralson reined his horse over to Ren and immediately began healing his shoulder.

“Illusion,” Evaine interrupted. “The creature wasn’t really there.”

“How did you know?”

“Gamaliel figured it out first. The beast didn’t smell like an abishai. Those last three we fought reeked of sulphur. I could also tell it wasn’t real.”

Ren twisted in his saddle to stare at Miltiades. “My dead eyes are difficult to deceive,” the undead knight said. “I saw only a shadow of the fiend.” The paladin reached out to hold Ren’s chain mail and assist Andoralson.

“What about you, druid?” Ren was growing irritated.

“I specialize in the magic of illusions. When Gamaliel tipped us off, I checked for myself and found the fiend to be a fake.”

The ranger huffed. “If that beast was such a fake, then why does this wound feel so real? Ouch!” He glared at Andoralson.

Evaine explained. “When you believe an illusion is real, you also believe its behavior to be real. The theory behind the magic is a bit complicated.”

“You mean I could have died from something that wasn’t there?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s been known to happen.”

“So why did the beast evaporate when it hit Andoralson’s shield?”

The druid spoke up. “That was the oak shield Miltiades gave me from his tomb. It magically repels arrows and other attacks, so I took a chance on the abishai. I guess I got lucky.”

The paladin’s stern voice scolded the druid. “Luck. Bah. You should thank Tyr for your life.” Andoralson nodded his apology to Miltiades.

“We should move on. We’ve got a long way to go.” Gamaliel offered, trying to bring order.

“Apparently that Marcus fellow knows we’re coming. This seems to be his way of greeting us.” Miltiades nudged his ivory steed to the front of the group, leading the way across the clearing.

Ren made a face. His shoulder still ached. “You’ve all got a sixth sense about this kind of thing. From now on, give me a signal, or if we’re facing other creatures, make some odd comment about oh, what we ate for breakfast or the price of ale in Waterdeep.” The ranger sighed wearily.

The group rode hard the rest of the day. Around midafternoon, Evaine broached a subject that concerned her.

“Andoralson, would you mind telling us what magic you’ve placed on this group? Gamaliel and I have been aware of some kind of spell ever since the fake abishai attacked us.” Evaine’s curiosity had finally gotten the better of her.

“Well… ah, I wanted us to approach the red tower as secretly as possible.”

“I understand. I’ve got my own protective spells at work. But what spell have you used on us?” Evaine wasn’t about to let the matter drop.

“The truth is sort of embarrassing—but since you insist, I’ve placed an illusion around us. We now appear as a herd of wild pigs.”

The barbarian snorted in disgust. Miltiades couldn’t contain a dry laugh.

“Pigs?” Ren asked in shock. “Why pigs? Why not lions, or buffalo, or even deer?”

“Uh … well, the spell requires a bit of hair or a tooth or some part of the animal. I found a few bristles from wild pigs a ways back. I didn’t have the hair from any other animals.”

The druid was embarrassed, but after his companions got over their surprise, they agreed his logic was excellent. A herd of wild pigs wasn’t likely to attract attention.

The weary group rode a few more hours, until darkness. They settled into a small clearing, but despite their exhaustion, the companions were restless with anticipation. They expected to reach the red tower before noon the next day.

With the evening meal finished, everyone set about making preparations for the morning. Ren and Miltiades knocked a few dents out of the paladin’s armor, repaired the ranger’s chain mail, then set to sharpening their swords. As a cat, Gamaliel didn’t need to prepare, but as a barbarian, he needed a sharp blade. The campsite was filled with the shhhinks and shooshes of three swords against whetstones. Evaine and Andoralson busied themselves taking inventory of spell components and placing them in convenient pockets. The two spellcasters spent extra time placing protective spells around the camp.

When Ren was satisfied with the sharpness of his blade, he pulled his daggers, Left and Right, out of his boots and began working over their long edges. Miltiades picked one up, admiring its weight and balance. “These have saved my life more times than I can count,” the ranger explained. “I have a feeling they’ll be put to the test tomorrow.”

“A thousand years ago, no one knew how to fashion such fine weapons,” Miltiades said. “Most weaponsmiths spent their time perfecting the larger, deadlier blades, like swords and lances.”

Ren couldn’t resist the opportunity to brag. “In the hands of one who’s skilled, these daggers are more deadly than a lance. Assuming we all survive the battle tomorrow, I’ll be happy to teach you the fine art of throwing such a blade.”

“I would like nothing more, Ren, but tomorrow, win or lose, I will forever be put to rest. Those of us who are walking dead sometimes know when our final day and hour will come. If we succeed tomorrow, I will rest in peace and honor. If we fail, I will again lie in unhallowed ground without the grace of my god.”

“Wait a minute,” Evaine called out in surprise. “You already know you’re going to … um, cease to exist… no matter what you do?”

“Correct. But do not feel sorry for me. I am lucky to have this second chance. I only hope I can accomplish my mission and help all of you in the short time I have left.” His voice was full of pride and strength.

The others were silent for a moment. The loyal skeletal warrior had become a trusted friend and ally.

Ren broke the somber moment. “Well, Miltiades, I don’t understand what Tyr may have set aside for you, but you’ve been a good friend to all of us. If we have anything to say about your fate, I know we’d all agree that you’ve served with faith and honor.”

If the warrior had been made of flesh, he would have blushed at the compliment. Instead he returned the praise. “I am lucky to have found friends like you to share my quest. The gods will smile on each of you.” Miltiades arose and walked the perimeter of the camp, peering into the dark forest, preparing for his watch.

The companions settled in for the night, but sleep wouldn’t come. The red tower loomed in all their thoughts. Ren worried about Shal and Tarl. Evaine tried to focus her thoughts on the dark pool. Miltiades and Andoralson both prayed for strength and guidance. Even Gamaliel slept only in fits, since the nervous energy in the camp was as tangible to him as cold rain. Now in comfortable cat form, he lay motionless on the blanket, blinking in the dim glow of the fire.

Finally, near midnight, the foursome drifted into restless sleep. Miltiades paced the small camp. Nothing would surprise the vigilant paladin.

Suddenly, a voice boomed out from the darkness. Miltiades gripped his sword. Gamaliel was instantly on his feet, ready to pounce, his tail fluffed out.