Pool of Radiance

by James M. Ward

  Below, a lone warrior was lashing out furiously at an attacking troll. Two other warriors lay nearby, probably dead, the area around them a scrap heap of troll parts. From where he crouched atop the wall, Ren could see the hands, legs, even heads, and other miscellaneous bits of troll beginning to move together, regenerating.

  Few creatures in the Realms were as hideous as trolls. Their bodies, even whole, were nightmarish—elongated parodies of giant, emaciated humans—and their faces were morbid caricatures from every child’s worst dreams, with long, wart-covered noses and black, seemingly empty eye sockets. Worse yet, their mutilated bodies refused to die. Even if a fighter were lucky enough to slice a troll to ribbons, its detached hand might claw at his leg and pull him to the ground, or the rolling, moss-covered head might bite and gnaw at his exposed flesh. Given enough time, the pieces would actually scuttle together and eventually form a whole new troll.

  But it was the troll’s skin that bothered Ren most. He had seen trolls in daylight, and he knew that their skin was always decaying and rotting, even as the creatures lived—just so much slime, mold, and fungus troweled onto greenish, tarlike flesh. Relieved that the night’s filtered moonlight prevented him from seeing more clearly, he wasted no time dropping his rope over to the other side and swinging down to aid the valiant fighter.

  He started by slopping oil from his fire flask on all the troll parts he could see. Flames shot up instantly as the magical fluid made contact with the arms, hands, and legs, and Ren was nearly overcome by the putrid smoke from the burning of wet flesh. Hunched over, fighting a cough that would not stop, Ren pivoted just in time to face the knees of the troll, which was now directing its attention to him. He thrust his short sword out between the troll’s knobby legs and pulled straight up with all the strength he could muster. He ripped through flesh he did not want to think about, then staggered back and fell to the ground, just out of immediate reach of the troll’s gargantuan hands. The nearly bisected creature bellowed with rage and lurched forward toward Ren.

  It would have killed him on the spot were it not for the quick action of the warrior, still behind the troll, who swung a huge broadsword, low and level with the creature’s pelvis. Razor-sharp metal, powered by the strength born of terror, ripped through skin and bone, and the troll’s upper body flopped back onto the warrior’s extended arms. Four-fingered hands, tipped with vicious, aquiline claws, reached by instinct alone and began tearing into the fighter’s upper arms. Ren crab-crawled to avoid the amputated legs that were still stalking his way, and then rolled, stood, and dodged beyond them. He leaped forward and immediately began hacking at the creature’s upper body, which was clinging to the shoulders of the enraged warrior. The troll didn’t loosen its grip until Ren severed its arms from its hands, and even then Ren had to yank the clawing hands from the fighter’s shoulders. Again he threw oil, and again there was a terrible stench as the troll flesh burned and smoked.

  The warrior collapsed, whether from the wounds or the smoke, Ren wasn’t sure. It wasn’t until Ren reached down to lift the prostrate form that he realized he knew the fighter. Her blonde hair was stuffed into a fighting helm, but he recognized the face as that of one of the women he had jested with just days before at the inn. Jen—what was it? Jensena? Yes, that was it. The other two fighters must be her two companions, he realized. As soon as he had moved Jensena away from the smoldering troll bits and patted the gouges on her shoulders with a blotting powder he carried, he checked the other two. They were both dead. He pulled their bodies up alongside the wall, along with their purses and light weapons. Guards could pick them up in the morning—if they were still intact.

  Ren got a good hold on Jensena and started up the rope. While she didn’t rival Tempest, much less Shal, for size, Jensena was still a big woman, and all muscle. Lugging her to the top of the wall was no mean feat, and Ren felt unanticipated relief when she started to rouse as they descended the other side. At first she just coughed and made pathetic squeaking noises as the coughing jarred her wounds. As soon as they reached the ground, Ren held her tight to keep the coughs from racking her body so hard, and when she seemed ready, he offered her some water. Still leaning against him, she tipped her head back and let him pour the water into her open mouth.

  When she’d had her fill, she turned her head away. “Salen? … Gwen?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ren softly. “Their bodies … are alongside the wall. In the morning—”

  “Damn! Damn!”

  Ren pulled the big woman closer and held her as she cried, gently at first, and then in hard, convulsive sobs. He said nothing. What was there to say when someone lost two friends? He surely didn’t know.

  Together they made their way slowly to the Laughing Goblin, Ren supporting Jensena. After a quick word with Sot, the two of them helped the woman up to a room, where they eased her onto the bed. To break the tension in the room while he readied a basin of fresh hot water, a sponge, and several strips of clean gauze, Sot joked quietly about the ineptness of Ren’s replacement. Ren appreciated the older man’s thoughtfulness and the room he let him keep above the stable, but he said nothing just then. As soon as Sot left, Ren gently sponged Jensena’s face and hair and helped her remove her chain mail and armor.

  In spite of his own numbness, Ren found himself unabashedly admiring Jensena’s impressive figure and musculature as he worked. Apart from wincing as the garments brushed her shoulders, the big blonde woman made no move to stop his efforts. The cloth of her blouse was matted against the bloody skin of her shoulders. When he used a dagger to tear the cloth around the wounds, he ripped the blouse almost down to her waist. Still she continued to watch him in silence. When he began cleaning the gashes in her shoulder, she finally spoke. “In the pouch, under my belt, you’ll find a healing potion.”

  Ren let his gaze pass slowly from her shoulders to her beltline, and then he glanced up and met her eyes. Ren’s pulse speeded, and he could feel his face flush. Jensena nodded lightly, and Ren reached for the potion, pausing just long enough to let his fingertips brush her warm, smooth skin. He closed his eyes for a single moment before his hand closed around the small glass bottle.

  It was an excellent healing potion. He used it sparingly, but it did the work of a cleric. She reached for Ren’s hands and squeezed them hard. “Thank you. When my pain is less …”

  “I’d like that, Jensena … Good night.”

  “We’ve slowed the poison, but we haven’t stopped it. I’m sorry. I know she’s a friend of yours.”

  Tarl tried to sit up, but he sucked in his breath in pain when the newly mended flesh under his ribs pulled tight. “No! I can’t … I can’t lose her, too. Brother … Brother Tern, you’ve got to keep trying! Surely there’s some antidote for the assassin’s poison!”

  “Tarl, we’ve done everything we know. Our clerical spells have done some good, or she’d be dead already. But the poison still burns through her. Her body still twitches like a fish on a hook, …” Brother Tern pointed across the chamber. Two clerics held Shal gently to keep her from harming herself further by involuntary movement. “I … I don’t believe she can last much longer.”

  Tarl looked briefly at Shal and then turned away. “I’ll call on Tyr myself to heal her!” Tarl fought the pain that throbbed through his whole body as he tried to stand. “I’ll go to the meditation chamber, to the innermost sanctuary. There can be no reason for her to suffer, too!”

  “Few so young dare to attempt to enter the inner sanctuary, but like any of us, Brother Tarl, you’re free to try. Cleanse yourself thoroughly first, though, and mind your attitude and your motives.”

  “Thank you, Brother Tern. I shall.”

  Tarl gratefully accepted his brother’s help as he bathed his healing body and changed into full battle garb. But when he stood at the door of the meditation chamber, he stood alone.

  Tarl knew from his earliest catechisms the nature of the meditation chamber. He would enter the first of four concentri
c squares clean of body, the second clean of extraneous thoughts, the third with a focus of purpose, and the final one with a focus on his god. While technically open to any worshiper of Tyr, few who were not grounded in the faith through years of clerichood and service bothered to enter, since a spiritual barrier prevented most from passing beyond the first or second square.

  Tarl raised his hammer to the entrance of the first square. It glowed blue, and he passed through the curtain into the chamber. The space between the outer square and the inner one was only four cubits, and the ceiling was low and confining. Tarl could feel his breath constrict. He wondered for a moment if he was doing the right thing, but he proceeded as he had been taught. His hammer and shield bared, Tarl walked the inner perimeter of the square, speaking the words of a mantra designed to cleanse the mind of miscellaneous thoughts. After twice around the square, his breathing eased, and he could feel his head clearing. Another time around and he could feel a healing warmth, greater than that from the hands of his brothers, spreading through his body, mending even the soreness brought on by his wound.

  After four more times around the square, his hammer glowed blue again, and Tarl entered the second square. This square was of course, smaller, and the distance between the walls of the squares was the same, but the ceiling was easily half again as tall as that of the previous chamber, which gave the second chamber an illusion of a greater size. Once more Tarl felt his breath constrict, and he experienced an intense pressure on all parts of his body, as though the walls of the room were closing in and the air had nowhere to go. Tarl found it impossible to think about the concerns he had planned to bring into the sanctuary. He remembered the advice Brother Tern had offered as he helped him with his robes and armor: “When you can go no further, fight. Find physical balance, and the rest will come. Tyr is God of War and Justice. He seeks focus of purpose and balance.”

  Tarl raised his shield and wielded his hammer, pushing and swinging, charging and parrying against imaginary foes that lined the narrow hallway. It was not until his body began to revel in the movement and Tarl found a familiar joy in the control of it that his focus returned. Unconsciously, almost as an afterthought to his physical action, he began to speak and respeak the concerns that plagued him: Shal, Anton, the Hammer of Tyr. Every time he brought his shield up or swung his hammer, it was for Shal, or Anton, or for the return of the hammer. His focus was so strong, he didn’t even think about the fact that he was now moving without pain.

  Soon his hammer began to blaze a brilliant blue, and Tarl stopped, relaxed his shield and hammer, and passed through the curtain to the third square. The square of the inner sanctuary stood before him. It radiated an intense, bright blue.

  Faith had never been difficult for Tarl. Tyrians practiced a hands-on kind of worship that made sense to him, and Tyr seemed infinitely believable. Pictures of him were always the same, a burly but gnarled, bearded old fellow with a hammer as big as his arm. The irony of references to his evenhandedness was that, from all accounts, he was missing one hand, and somehow that made him all the more approachable. Tarl’s strong faith had already been rewarded with exceptional healing powers for one so young.

  Only now, when two people he valued, perhaps as much as his standing as a cleric, lay filled by evil, did Tarl ever question his god or his faith.

  “My thoughts of Shal, Anton, and the Hammer of Tyr I give up to you, and thoughts of you, great Tyr, Grimjaws, the Even-Handed, God of War, God of Justice. I offer up my fate to your hammer and to the balances.” Tarl waited, continuing to meditate on his god.

  Moments later, his hammer began to glow once more, and Tarl entered the innermost sanctuary. Each of the four walls and the vaulted ceiling were mirrors of highly polished silver. At the center of the small room was a cushioned kneeling stool with a small, covered platform before it. Tarl knelt and rested his hammer on the platform. He was surrounded by his own image—a warrior, armed and ready for battle, but completely submissive and vulnerable.

  He stared at the hammer and continued to focus his thoughts on Tyr. The hammer began to radiate an even brighter light, and then it began to rise slowly from the platform as Tarl watched, his mind filled with the wisdom and thoughts of his god. The sensation was not like hearing spoken words, nor was it like the occasional shared thought between intimates. It was a flooding, a purging wave of guidance.

  Tarl had no idea how long he’d been in the inner sanctuary. He had no memory of coming out. He knew only that he must find Ren immediately.

  “Your daggers! We have to get them to Shal! Now!” Tarl hammered on the door and shouted to Ren again and again, but the big man was rummaging his way out of a deep sleep that had come from exhaustion, and he wasn’t comprehending what all the ruckus was about. In fact, Tarl was lucky he was pounding outside the door because Ren probably would have killed him on instinct as an intruder if he’d managed to get into the room. As it was, Ren launched both Right and Left at the closed door.

  “Tyr and Tymora!” Tarl leaped back as the two dagger points pierced through to his side of the door. “Wake up, man, before you kill somebody!”

  It was Ren’s own movement that finally woke him, and he slowly comprehended the source of the clamor. “Be right with you,” he muttered.

  It took Tarl only a few minutes to explain that he needed to use one of the ioun stones to increase his clerical powers in an attempt to heal Shal, yet it seemed to Tarl more like hours, and longer still before they were finally back at the temple.

  The clerics could not keep Shal on a cot or bed. Her body jerked with nightmares and spasms induced by the poison, so she lay on a thick cotton quilt, a soft cotton blanket that was constantly being replaced crumpled over the lower half of her body. Tarl sat on the cool stone floor beside Shal and pulled her twitching body up close to his own. He clenched a blue-black ioun stone in one hand and his hammer in the other. Tenderly he wrapped his arms tight around Shal, then began to pray as he had never prayed before. Blue light like that he had seen in the inner sanctuary blazed from the stone and the hammer. For a moment, Shal’s body jerked even more violently, and then a vile green vapor filtered up from the pores around Shal’s collarbone and dispersed into the clear morning air. Her body quieted immediately, and Shal went limp in Tarl’s arms.

  “Shal? Shal!” Tarl pulled her even closer, praying to sense warmth and a firm heartbeat rather than clammy, cooling skin and silence. Suddenly strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer still, and he immersed himself in the passion of her grateful embrace.

  “Glad to have you back, Shal,” said Ren, and he pulled her from Tarl for a hug of his own.

  Yarash

  “This is the rest of your treasure,” said Gensor. He watched Cadorna’s face darken as he laid out the dwarven armor and then the jewelry. He knew the councilman had killed for far less than the handful of expensive baubles before him, and Gensor had every intention of redirecting Cadorna’s attention so he wouldn’t take that route. “Not bad for a night’s work, eh? But mark my words, there are far bigger prizes to be had.”

  “Oh?” Cadorna cocked his head and waited for the mage to go on.

  “The woman … the mage. She took an assassin’s poison dagger in the shoulder last night. I made my exit from the inn unseen just as the brouhaha started.”

  “She’s dead? It serves her r—”

  “No. She lives. The Tyrian cleric—” Gensor paused for emphasis—“he used an ioun stone to heal the woman.”

  “An ioun stone?” Cadorna stood up from his chair and came around in front of his desk. He had to check himself to keep from grabbing Gensor by his robes. “The cleric has an ioun stone?”

  “Not his, I suspect, or I’m sure he would have left it with the temple. But, yes, he used an ioun stone. All the clerics and even some of the peasants who were worshiping in the temple early this morning saw it.”

  Cadorna stood mere inches from Gensor, his eyes blazing with avarice, his thoughts turning to the firs
t reports he had heard from the trio after their venture to Sokol Keep—about ioun stones, the Lord of the Ruins, and “power to the pool.”

  Gensor went on. “This is only conjecture on my part, but as I said, I don’t think the gem could belong to the cleric.”

  “Yes? So?” Cadorna actually began to tap his foot in his impatience.

  “Do you remember the strong magic I detected in the big man’s boots? An ioun stone could explain that.”

  “You think the stone belongs to him?”

  It was Gensor’s impatience that showed now. He leaned almost nose to nose with Cadorna. “Yes … and he has two boots!”

  Cadorna’s eyes widened. “You mean—”

  A cloud of ocher-colored smoke puffed into the room right alongside Cadorna and Gensor. Both moved away from it, but Cadorna moved twice as far and twice as fast as Gensor. A sulfurous smell burned the nostrils of both men, and then a faint hum sounded as a short, spry, almost elflike wizard appeared in the room, his yellow-gold cape billowing with the last puffs of smoke.

  “A messenger from the Lord of the Ruins,” said Gensor.

  “Yes …” Cadorna acknowledged. “We’ve met.”

  The messenger wasted no time. “I am here concerning a certain party of three, Councilman. You warned the Lord of the Ruins before they went to Sokol Keep, and he’s tried since to have them killed. In fact, only last night an assassin assigned to either gain their services or kill them was smashed to a pulp by the mage woman’s horse. The Lord of the Ruins wants those three dead.”

  Gensor licked his thin, dry lips and swallowed. He’d had his own run-in with the horse shortly after he’d taken the jewelry and armor from the woman’s room at the inn. He had been startled at the time to find the horse loose in the streets. He figured the familiar must have bolted from the building after trampling the assassin.