Ren became a human sandwich, folded deeply into the dead frog’s soft, quivering belly, and covered by the mass of the live frog. He flailed out in panic, slashing up, down, sideways, pushing frantically at both of the creatures as their guts began to ooze over him. Soon both frogs lay jerking spasmodically on the floor on either side of Ren, who was shaking the slime and gore from his arms and retching….
“Behind you!” Tarl yelled, but it was too late. The last of the frogs was leaping at Ren with a vengeance. It smacked into his back with a wet thwack and sent him sprawling into the back wall of the room. As he struck the wall, it collapsed, and Ren fell to the floor of the next room with the frog on top of him. Shal spoke the final words of a Magic Missile spell, and three projectiles shot from her fingertips and buried themselves in the cold flesh of the frog. It jerked to its death on top of Ren before Shal and Tarl could reach their friend and pull the creature off him.
When they finally got Ren out from under the giant amphibian, his complexion was a pasty white, and his black leathers and armor were dripping with blood and ocher-colored ooze.
“Are—are you okay?” Shal asked, anxiously releasing her tight hold on Ren’s hand.
Ren lay silent for more than a minute, then rose slowly and shook himself head to foot. “God, I need a bath! I’ve fought some of the most disgusting creatures in the Realms, and I’ve never felt this filthy….” He noticed their expressions of concern turning to relief. “Some valiant fighter, huh?” he asked, embarrassed.
“We should all stand up so well,” Tarl said sincerely. “For a minute there, I thought I was—”
“Hey, you two, come and take a look at this.” Shal was standing near the frog she had just killed, pointing at it. A grayish-green band encircled the creature’s broad, damp neck. If it hadn’t been for a triangle of silver that hung from it, the band would barely have been visible. The triangle, embossed with a small silver pyramid, glistened even in the dull light from the larger room. “It looks like a collar or something,” said Shal, gingerly reaching for the medallion.
Ren grabbed her outstretched hand with startling speed. “Don’t touch it!” he hissed. “Who knows what cursed master these god-awful animals served? That’s not a symbol I’m familiar with, but these creatures sure weren’t sent by anything friendly.”
“Look here!” whispered Tarl. He had come around the frog from the other side and was holding up the far end of the stretch of canvas on which Ren and the frog had landed. Underneath was a veritable armory of weapons—ball and chains, throwing hammers, daggers, throwing stars, axes, shields, armor. Most were rusted or corroded, but two items stood out from the rest: a dagger and a hammer, both of which shone as though a metalsmith had polished them the day before. Each glowed with an eerie green light, and each was in mint condition and obviously of top quality.
“Those wouldn’t glow like that unless there was some danger nearby,” hissed Ren. “My own daggers do the same.” He pulled Right from his boot, and sure enough, it was gleaming with a bluish light. “Listen …” whispered Ren. He pointed toward a gaping hole in the wall of the muddy room where the frogs lay dead. The sound of grating humanoid voices drifted through the air like the buzz of so many cicadas. Quickly Ren handed the hammer to Tarl, keeping the dagger for himself.
Together the three moved silently back into the larger room and worked their way along the wall to the opening. Ren crouched down and glanced cautiously through the hole, then quickly pulled back behind what remained of the wall. “There’s a lot of them—orcs, hobgoblins, kobolds … a real mixed lot,” he whispered. “Must be at least forty of them. We’ve got to get out of here—maybe back through the barracks and over the wall.”
Tarl shook his head. “We haven’t located what we came for,” he whispered. “Our information is only partial, and the undead still walk.”
“At least we know what kind of creatures are here,” argued Shal, also in a hushed voice. “We can tell the council and they can send troops.”
“No,” insisted Tarl. “I think we should talk with them and try to get more information about their leader.”
Ren tugged gently on Tarl’s collar. “You’re a nut case, my cleric friend. I speak orcish well enough to know that their idea of a pleasant conversation is to say, ‘Die, human scum!’ ” He tugged lightly on Tarl’s collar again and whispered with intensity, “Do you understand me? We’ve got to get out of here!”
“Get out of here?” The sharp, barking voice of a kobold sounded behind them. “Get out of here?” He let out a low chuckle, a perverted sound, like a dog growling.
Tarl and Shal turned to see a kobold strut through the doorway with an entourage of about two dozen orcs and goblins behind him. Ren watched as the troop of humanoids began to climb in through the hole in the wall.
“The party? The party? Is this the party?” snorted a fat orc, obviously, from his dress, a leader of the troop.
“Yes, master,” barked the kobold. “The three of them … ours for the taking for the Lord of the Ruins.”
The lead ore’s yellow, piggy eyes gleamed brightly, and he snorted again in his excitement. “Torture the party … kill the party … get big praise from the Lord of the Ruins!”
“Power to the pool!” shouted the kobold.
“Power to the pool!” Orcs and hobgoblins alike took up the chant. “Power to the pool!” All jabbed cudgels, axes, or swords into the air in time with the chant as they began to circle round the companions, who were pressed together in a small cluster, back to back.
“What’s that they’re chanting?” Tarl asked, looking to Ren for a translation.
“They’re getting ready to kill us, probably by torture, and they’re saying something over and over again about ‘Power to the pool,’ ” Ren replied.
Tarl tried to block out the jeering and chanting. He managed to concentrate long enough to cast a spell of Enthrallment. He had practiced the spell many times before, but he had never before tried it on a hostile group. If the spell were successful, the group of creatures would understand and be receptive to anything he said, at least for a short while.
“Tell me, friends,” he asked evenly, “to what pool do you refer?”
The kobold beamed, his tongue lolling over his yellow fangs like a panting canine. “Pool belongs to the Lord of the Ruins. He says to kill, we kill. Pool glows brighter. The Lord of the Ruins grows stronger. We grow stronger. We kill more. Nobody stops us … Power to the pool!” he shouted once more.
Others started to pick up the chant again, and Tarl could feel his control slipping. He waved his arms in a benevolent gesture. “Surely killing us can be of no value to your lord—or to the pool. Can’t we do something else to add power to the pool?”
Ren signaled Shal to brace herself for a mad dash. The chances of them escaping from this mob seemed slim to none, but now, while they were still calmed by Tarl’s spell, was the time to move if there was ever going to be any.
The pig-eyed leader suddenly stuck his dripping snout up close to Tarl’s face. “You have power stone? Ioun stone? Give us stone, you live. No stone, we kill. Power to the pool!”
“Ioun stone?” Tarl repeated, puzzled.
“No ioun stone?” the leader started to snort. “Kill! Kill them!”
The spell was broken. Tarl smashed his shield hard into the orc’s pig face and started swinging his hammer with a vengeance. Ren lunged forward, slashing and hacking madly with his short swords, parrying as he had never parried before to block cudgels and axes descending all around him.
Shal swung her staff high and brought it down hard, repeatedly, sending several humanoids within her range sprawling, but there were many more. She could not see, but could hear and sense, the flight of several daggers and arrows, weapons that all her swinging could not protect her against. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ren taken down by a vicious blow to his abdomen. Tarl was barely managing to keep the pressing masses of orcs and hobgoblins away from overwhelming
him. She knew that she and the others would soon be beaten senseless.
An axe bit deep into her shoulder as she took her next swing. Her scream of pain and terror was voiceless … as was the cry of her familiar! The staff! The Staff of Power! Use it now!
“Halcyon!” shouted Shal, and she extended the staff toward the frenzied beasts around her. “Harak!” Brilliant electricity, nearly the color of amethyst, coursed up and down the staffs surface. Bolts of lightning arced out in all directions. She spoke another word, and small, purple balls of flame crackled from the tip, doubling in size with each inch they traveled. With yet another word, deafening thunder shook the building to its foundation. The screams of sizzling humanoids rose up everywhere. Shal turned, and more lightning bolts and fireballs flew from the staff. Doglike kobolds burned to charred stumps. The fatty flesh of orcs and goblins spattered and sizzled. Shal turned yet again, but this time there were no takers. The handful of unscathed humanoids that remained were bolting away as fast as they could go, barking, squealing, and screaming like wild animals fleeing a forest fire.
Shal slumped to the ground, her fists clenched white around the staff as blood spurted from the gash in her shoulder. She stared numbly at her two friends, each of whom was in turn staring open-mouthed at her.
All around them was wreckage. Shal’s lightning bolts had blasted huge holes in the building’s already damaged ceilings and walls, and the smoldering remains of dead humanoids lay everywhere. Shal slowly turned her head from side to side in disbelief, awed by the power she held within her grasp. She had never before killed, never been party to such wholesale destruction. She had also never been so consumed or driven by terror—fear for herself and fear for her companions—but she knew that she would react the same way again if confronted with the same situation. She looked at her friends, who were still staring at her in amazement.
When he could stir himself out of his shock, Tarl reached out and pressed his hands to Shal’s bloodied shoulder. The power of Tyr flowed warm and strong, and he could feel the healing surge through his fingertips. Once again he experienced an overwhelming bond to the red-haired fighter-mage. As he healed her, he somehow felt the key to his own wholeness.
Shal reached up and pressed her hands over Tarl’s. “Thank you. Please … please help Ren now.”
Tarl snatched his hands away, ashamed that he could have forgotten his other companion for even a moment. He placed one hand on each of Ren’s firm, muscular shoulders. Tarl could feel the pain of untold bruises, and he sensed internal damage where Ren had taken the blow to the stomach. Tarl waited for the healing warmth to flow through his hands. Once it did, he spoke. “You should feel better, but when we get back, you must rest. I can do little more.”
“I can’t think of a time when I’ve felt better,” said Ren cheerily, shaking himself from his own stunned silence. “I mean, what more can a fellow ask? You carry on friendly conversations with orcs, she packs a weapon that even the gods must find frightening, and then you patch us up besides. We’ve even managed to fulfill our mission and collect some bonus information for the council.”
“How’s that?” Tarl asked.
“The old armory, the stuff about the shiny pool where the boss fellow, that ‘Lord of the Ruins,’ gets his power—that wasn’t anything we agreed to dig up for Cadorna.”
“That’s true, but we still aren’t done here,” said Tarl.
“Not done!” exclaimed Shal. “I’ve had more than enough adventure for one day, thank you. Skeletons … oversized fly-slurpers … orcs and kobolds … You’ve got to understand, I used to get tired just dusting Ranthor’s laboratory.”
“But the skeletons … my brothers, the clerics of Tyr,” Tarl insisted. “They still walk the keep.”
“They seem pretty quiet, though,” said Ren. “You calmed them down.”
“Yes, but they’re not at rest. I can feel it! They’re still undead, tormented souls. I need to go to the temple and try to find out for myself what keeps them so agitated.”
Ren stood and reached his hand down to help Shal to her feet. “I guess we can take a tour of the temple with him, don’t you think? I mean, if it weren’t for Tarl, you and I probably would have been killed by the skeletons—that is, if the cloud over this place hadn’t killed us first.”
Shal gave Ren’s hand a squeeze, and then reached out and squeezed Tarl’s. “Let’s go, then,” she said. “I really think we should get out of this place before dark.”
Skeleton warriors were still milling in the entryway, but they did nothing to stop the three. Tarl lifted the latch on the ornately carved door to the temple and pushed. The altar inside was covered with dust, but it had not suffered from dragonfire. A lone specter flitted back and forth before the altar. Instead of moaning or screaming, it was shouting oath after oath, curse after curse.
Tarl felt his breathing speed at the sight of the ghostly visage. Its appearance reminded him of the vampire’s minions. Tarl swallowed and struggled to get his breathing under control. With considerable effort, he spoke clearly and deliberately. “Who are you, brother, and what is troubling you?” Tarl asked.
The specter continued to flit up and down and back and forth among the tables and seats in the temple, but in between oaths, it spoke in a gravelly voice. “Ferran Martinez … I am Ferran Martinez, ruling cleric of the sacred order of Tyr. I am the high cleric who remained in the temple while each of my men died, then died of starvation myself because I could not bear to go outside and face them. The bloody dragons came. They burned and killed and left our mission’s work undone.”
“What keeps you undead, Brother Martinez? What work remains undone? Can I be of help?” Ren and Shal just looked on as Tarl coaxed and soothed the agitated apparition.
The creature swung its phantom arms straight through the altar repeatedly, as if to strike it, but managed only to knock over several dust-coated candlesticks from the flurry of wind it generated. “Devils to the Abyss! Blast them in the fiery furnace! Sleep, men! Rest.” He ended in a piteous scream.
“Brother Martinez, can I help?” Tarl repeated.
“The city of Phlan is dead! Monsters! Nothing but monsters! And the temple … it was never used. We had just finished building it, but there were no worshipers, only the clerics who built it. No peace in the city! No peace! Nothing but walking dead and unending nightmares … and the Lord of the Ruins, Tyranthraxus, still lives! Cursed creature from the pit! Power-grabbing blasphemer! May his soul rot!”
“They’ve reconstructed part of the city, Brother Martinez. It’s civilized again. In fact, they call the new part Civilized Phlan.”
“ ‘Civilized Phlan’?” the specter repeated, then grew still and floated closer to Tarl.
Tarl flinched involuntarily but stood firm. “Yes, and we’re building a new temple to Tyr. That’s why I came, to aid others in the construction and startup of the new temple.”
“A new temple to Tyr? Then you can use the holy scale?” The specter whisked to the altar and pulled back a cloth. A silver balance, the balance of Tyr, God of War and Justice, stood on the table. “You will see that this gets used in the new temple?”
Tarl dropped down on one knee, both awed and humbled at the prospect of being given a second chance to deliver a holy symbol of his god to the temple in Phlan. “I will see that the scale sits proudly on the altar of the temple in Phlan.”
“Then I can at last rest,” said Ferran Martinez, “and so can our brothers.” He held the scale out to Tarl, and Tarl wrapped it carefully in the cloth that had covered it for five decades.
And the apparition of Ferran Martinez reclined at the foot of the altar, with its ethereal hands folded across its chest, and vanished in a puff of mist.
Outside the keep, the grounds stood empty. No skeletal warriors walked the courtyard. In fact, the most noticeable thing was the sunshine that filled the sky over Thorn Island. The brilliant orange of the setting sun glistened unimpeded off the walls of the temple and the tall
grasses that covered the courtyard.
Restless Spirits
When he heard that the three tavern brawlers had actually returned from Thorn Island, Porphyrys Cadorna left his dinner and rushed to the council chambers. He had waited anxiously before for the return of other groups, but he had always been disappointed. This time he had intentionally gone about his normal business, not wanting to waste his energies only to be left disappointed. But the three were back, and according to Cadorna’s attendant, they claimed to carry proof of their success. The councilman positioned himself at the dais and signaled for the attendant to let them enter. He would inform the rest of the council of his victory when he was sure of their achievements and not before.
The cleric, Tarl Desanea, entered first, followed by the big man who called himself Ren o’ the Blade and the young mage, Shal Bal. They were covered with dirt and grime, and from the big man’s movements, Cadorna could see he was struggling with some great pain. Still, they made an impressive trio. Cadorna felt a chill run through him at the thought of meeting any of these three under less than amicable circumstances.
“So … what have you learned that will help us recover Thorn Island?” Cadorna asked after thumping his gavel twice, as if to silence a nonexistent audience.
“We have certain useful information, and with the help of the mighty Tyr, the Even-Handed, we have also succeeded in quelling the undead forces that made Sokol Keep uninhabitable,” announced Tarl, bowing before Cadorna with as much formality as he could muster. “The resettling of Thorn Island may begin immediately.”
This was splendid, more than Cadorna could have hoped for! He wanted to appear pleased, but he didn’t want these three to think that their obligation to the court was so easily fulfilled. He gazed down from the dais, his eyes gleaming with avarice. “You say it is so, but how do I know it is so?” Cadorna waved his hand at the three in an encompassing gesture. “Even assuming you have been to the island, how can I be sure it is safe to send our citizens there to settle that blackened rock?”
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