Pools of Darkness (32 page)

“Come up into the light of truth, bard.” The wizard raised her hand. A purple mist curled and streaked toward the minstrel. When the vapors tried to lift him, they puffed into harmless gas and dissipated.

“I can join you on my own power, if that is what you wish, my dear.” He strummed his lute, and the chords of music wove into a silver staircase hovering in the air. Latenat strolled up to Shal as the crowd shouted its pleasure at seeing the two together. The wizard was startled, but hid her surprise.

The crowd hushed. Freedom was within their grasp. Many citizens shifted their packs, adjusting their bags of gold and silver. Surely the gates would be opening at any moment.

“Sweet child, your husband is prepared to join me. Learn from the other women of the city. Be a good little wife.”

His condescending attitude only infuriated Shal further.

“Your spells and magical suggestions won’t work on me. We can talk and you can leave, or we can fight. It’s up to you.” Shal’s baby kicked hard, but her grimace only made her appear more determined.

“Why, lovely lady, I could never fight you. If gentle reason won’t work, I can leave these good people to their fates. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind living out their lives in this charming cave.” The bard’s sugary voice disgusted Shal, but his words upset the crowd and the citizens began grumbling among themselves.

“I only wish to … Argh!”

Suddenly the bard collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest. His lute fell from the staircase onto the stone street and smashed into hundreds of pieces. Shal’s eyes widened. None of her group had used any magic against the bard yet. The sorceress suspected a trick.

“No! Not now!” Now the bard groaned and twisted in pain. Still on his magical stairway, he suddenly transformed into a black, horrifying pit fiend. His batlike wings thrashed on the staircase. Great talons scratched and gouged at the magical structure as the monster hissed and drooled.

The creature that had been the wondrous bard Latenat turned to vapor and vanished. Children screamed and cried. To the people of Phlan who had adored him only moments before, this new apparition filled them with horror and revulsion. Now they wept in terror at the creature’s trickery, falsehoods that had nearly led them to tragedy.

Tarl came to his senses and reached for Shal, pulling her close. The people in the streets wailed in anguish. Shal collapsed in relief into her husband’s arms as Tarl addressed the crowd.

“Good people of Phlan, we were nearly tricked into losing our city. We have tolerated this wretched cave long enough. It is time to abandon our walls and save ourselves. Our food is nearly gone. The attacks will only get worse. Take home your valuables, pick up your shields and weapons. Open the armories! Let us march out of here and write a new history for Phlan!”

A deafening cheer arose from the crowd. The citizens turned toward their homes with new hope in their hearts.

Still shaking at the thought of what might have been, Tarl swept up his exhausted wife in his arms and carried her toward Denlor’s Tower.

After five hours of sleep, Ren, Evaine, and Andoralson all awoke within moments of each other under a sky that looked bleaker than usual. The druid arose first and stoked the fire. Gamaliel stirred as Evaine slid from her bedroll, but lay on the warm blanket as his mistress brushed and braided her long hair.

Ren watched the wizard weaving her hair. He had seen her do this nearly every morning since they’d met. At a glance, her mane looked brown; but a closer look revealed smoldering red tones. The ranger thought to himself that her hair reflected her personality—a subtle exterior with fires burning underneath. The woman looked harmless, but packed a wallop with her years of wisdom and extraordinary magical powers.

The ranger hauled himself to his feet and checked his saddle, saddlebags, chain mail, and weapons for what seemed like the tenth time since the group had made camp the night before. He wore his polished chain mail, exquisitely crafted by the elves, and the magical cloak that made his form seem to blur, making it difficult for an enemy to strike him. His numerous daggers were sharpened and tucked away in sheaths all over his body. The long bow was packed, and his huge sword hung within easy reach. It would be his most trusted companion in the hours to come.

Miltiades and his ivory steed were ready, as always. The paladin had prepared his armor and sword the night before. Without the need for food or sleep, he now waited calmly as the others checked their gear.

As Miltiades waited, he meditated and prayed to Tyr. He no longer prayed to gain courage, but to show acceptance of his fate. His spirit was growing tired after its lengthy wait for Tyr’s call, and he longed for this chance for eternal peace. The undead paladin made one last vow to prove his worth and devotion.

“Tyr,” he whispered, bowing his head, “your servant is grateful for this quest. My soul is dedicated to you. Know that I go forth this day to honor your name. I can be victorious only through your guidance, but my failure is my own. Accept the struggles of this humble servant as testimony to his devotion to you.” The paladin silently continued his mediation as his companions finished readying themselves.

Evaine and Andoralson inventoried their spell components one final time. The druid chose a patch of grass away from the others, then knelt in prayer to Silvanus. Evaine settled crosslegged on her bedroll and began a ritual of meditation and concentration that would help her focus her magical powers.

Rising from his prayers, Andoralson planted one last ring of magical oak trees, knowing this might be his final chance to leave a mark of good in the world. As he concentrated on the magic, he could sense the other nineteen groves growing tall and strong. The druid would leave a small legacy behind, even if the battle ahead proved to be his last.

Gamaliel was ready for action, tensely pacing the camp in cat form. He started at every rustle of the wind and at every leaf that tumbled into the clearing. His eyes were deeply golden; his pink nose never stopped twitching at the wind. Twice the fur on his tail fluffed out as if a black dragon had swooped into camp.

The cat informed his mistress that he smelled creatures of evil all around them, within a few miles of the perimeter. Both knew they would meet the horrid minions soon enough.

Evaine felt fully prepared, both mentally and physically, for the battle ahead, but she was still wrought with anxiety. Pools of darkness were unpredictable things, and what worked to destroy one might not destroy another. Yet her hatred for the evil waters outweighed her nervousness and stirred her determination.

The sorceress pondered the problem of the pit fiend. She had faced fiends before, but never one of this kind. She knew them to be vastly powerful and resistant to many types of magic. As she loaded her saddlebags, she drew out a slim, silver case containing four large darts wrought from dragon talons. Opening the case, she checked to see that the tip of each was coated with a brown, sticky substance.

“Ren, are you skilled in the use of darts?”

The ranger stopped his pacing long enough to answer. “I’ve used various types of darts. But when I need a missile weapon, I prefer the bow. Why do you ask?”

“The fiend we’re going to face will probably be resistant to magic. I have four darts made from dragon talons. Their tips are harder than tempered steel, and they’re coated with a sap that causes paralysis, at least in humans. I’d like you to carry one in case you can get a shot at the fiend. It may weaken the creature and allow my magic to work. If it’s paralyzed or even slowed, it will improve all our chances of success.” Evaine held out the dart.

The ranger ignored her, leading Stolen out of the grass and mounting the huge horse. Without so much as a glance at the wizard, he answered indignantly, “You’re talking about using poison. I don’t work that way.”

Evaine’s answer was equally tense. “I’m talking about using poison on a fiend from the pits of the Nine Hells, not on an opponent in a bar brawl. We’re going to need every advantage we can get. If you can land a dart on the monster but I can’t, it could mean the difference in this battle.”

Ren stared at the dart for a moment, then spurred Stolen forward and took the small missile from Evaine’s hand. It was handsomely weighted and the tip was razor-sharp. The image of Tarl and Shal that sprang to mind told him he was doing the right thing. He wondered briefly whether the wizard had planted the thought in his brain.

Evaine and Andoralson mounted their horses, as Gamaliel blurred and transformed into a barbarian. Riding rather than walking would conserve his energy.

The five companions set out through the woods toward the red tower. The evil aura emanating from the structure was like a beacon drawing the group to their fates.

An hour of steady riding brought the travelers to a low rise. As they topped it, they could see the red tower of Marcus in the distance, huge stormclouds swirling around it. Marcus had laid out the welcome mat in the form of a cyclone of pure fire, nearly as tall as the tower. It was speeding up the hill toward Evaine and the others.

Miltiades spoke up. “Fire elemental! The rest of you ride back down the hill the way we came. I can take care of this beast. It’ll do less harm to my fleshless body.” The paladin was gripping his sword, maneuvering his horse for a charge.

“You’ll do no such thing!” Evaine called out. “Your idea is noble, but suicidal. The only way we’re going to win this battle is to stick together and fight. We can’t let Marcus’s pets kill us one by one.”

Now it was Andoralson’s turn. “That stormcloud will aid us. Prepare yourselves to fight, but don’t do anything until we see if this spell has any effect.”

The druid began to chant, crushing berries of mistletoe in his palm. Thunder and lightning crashed overhead as the eighty-foot wall of flame sped toward the top of the hill. In moments, the skies had opened and torrents of rain were pouring forth, flooding the hillside. An unearthly cloud of steam arose around the creature. As Andoralson continued to chant, a bolt of lightning leaped from the sky and blasted the cone of flame. The monster wavered, but still came up the hill. Three more bolts of lightning struck it. The writhing blaze shrank to the size of a small hut. As the rain swept down, the creature drowned in the waters the druid had summoned. The last tongue of flame was extinguished only thirty feet from the hilltop.

Ren cheered as the creature dissolved into the mud. The companions waited under the trees for the rain to end. Evaine took advantage of the pause to cast a spell rendering them all invisible, then the group began the trek down the hill.

As the five approached the tower, Evaine announced her observation that the structure appeared to have no doors. But four paths worn through the grass betrayed the possible locations of the entrances. Even as a human, Gamaliel’s sensitive nose was able to choose a path tainted with the scents of men and monsters. A simple spell revealed the tall, golden doors Marcus had concealed. Evaine went to work on opening the magically locked entry.

Three times the door glowed green, but three times the door refused to yield. Ren fished out his lockpicking tools and busied himself with the lock, but the mechanism refused to budge.

“I’ve got one more spell I can try,” Evaine suggested.

Ren scowled at the door, then looked at the others. “Save your energy, Evaine. We’re going to need it later. Everybody stand back. I’ve got an idea.”

The ranger mounted Stolen and rode back up the path. After perhaps fifty yards, he turned and ordered the war-horse into a charge straight for the tower. As the beast neared the portal, it reared up on massive haunches and pounded down on the door with powerful forehooves.

The door shuddered and fell inward with a splintering crash, crushing the four mercenary guards who were posted behind the door.

Still invisible, Miltiades took the lead with Ren. Ahead, a long corridor filled with skeletal troops stretched onward, ending with another door. A stench like that of an ancient, moldering tomb nearly overpowered them, but the two warriors spurred their mounts into the massed defenders, hacking and slaying as they pressed on. Bony hands and rusty blades bounced off Miltiades and his magical horse, Stolen’s magical barding and Ren’s chain mail. Dozens of blows landed on the powerful fighters, but none caused so much as a scratch.

The hundred or so skeletons, the weakest of Marcus’s guards, were quick work for the ranger and paladin.

Stolen and the ivory steed kicked and trampled as they went, crushing bone with every hoof.

The warriors’ attacks caused their invisibility to fade, but the spell had served long enough to get the group into the tower. Evaine, Gamaliel, Andoralson, and their horses were still invisible, however, although the two warriors had no trouble knowing where they were. Loud crunching and snapping under the horses’ hooves announced their presence as they picked their way over heaps of shattered bones and skulls.

Evaine stepped up to the door. Instantly it glowed green. “It’s not locked,” she whispered. “There’s a huge chamber on the other side. I don’t detect any movement, but there might be creatures hiding within.”

Ren and Miltiades pushed the doors open, spurring their horses forward. The three companions followed closely. All stopped short at the appearance of a fifteen-foot-tall wizard in red robes glaring down at them.

A scraping voice boomed out of the stale air. “Finally you’ve come! Too bad my guards weren’t nearly enough of a challenge for you. Let me see—how would you like to battle a—”

“Sanddunarum!” Evaine shrieked. A jade mist arose from her hand and swirled about the giant wizard. The image warped and shifted, then shattered into millions of emerald facets. Ren and the others ducked, but when they looked up, no pieces of the wizard could be seen anywhere.

“Gods be damned!” the real Marcus screamed in frustration at the destruction of his magical trap. All heads turned to see a red-robed mage hidden in an alcove at the rear of the chamber. “Well, brave heroes,” he taunted, “join me upstairs—if you dare!” The wizard lifted off the floor and flew up a side stairway. The sound of his evil laughter drifted down in his wake, echoing in the chamber.