Among the hustling villagers was a tall, white-haired man. The whiteness of his hair belied his age, but his muscled frame erased any question of his youth. He had spent the day inspecting the city walls, troops, and weapons.
He ducked into a bakery, accidentally slamming the door behind him with a bang.
“Afternoon, Tarl. You sure know how to make an entrance,” chuckled a slender, elderly woman. “Usually the bell above the door is enough for us to know you’re here.”
Tarl smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry about that, Celie. I’ve got a lot on my mind lately. But I’ll sleep better knowing our troops are well-equipped and morale is high. Now, do you have any tarts left to improve my morale?”
The woman behind the counter rattled off the list of her remaining baked goods. Tarl made his selections, and Celie began to load them into his basket. “You really should be heading home, Celie, while people are still on the streets. A woman your size could be carried off in a hurry by one of those fiends that attacked a few days ago.” Tarl never failed to wonder how a woman who had been a baker all her life could stay so thin.
“You’re my last customer, Tarl. Once you’re on your way, I’m going to bolt the shutters and head for home. My cats will probably be wondering where I am.” Celie added up Tarl’s purchases.
Without a word, Tarl went to latch the bakery’s shutters. Their stout oak wouldn’t be much good against fiends or magical fire, but bolting the shutters somehow felt right amid the chaos of life in the cavern. When Tarl was finished, Celie scolded him. “Now, you know you didn’t have to do that. I’d have gotten to it.”
“Can’t have anything happen to the best bakery on the Moonsea, now can we? And I’ll be walking you home, Celie. No arguing.”
Celie made a face, though she knew Tarl was right. Tarl paid for his purchases, then Celie asked if he wouldn’t mind locking the back door for her. While his back was turned, she slipped a large poppyseed cake, his wife’s favorite, into his basket.
They locked the shop together, then headed into the streets. Celie’s home was a little out of the way, but Tarl didn’t care.
As they walked, Tarl told Celie of his pleasure at the readiness of the troops. He could see the relief on her face as he described the city’s condition.
“Phlan has never looked stronger. We may be stuck in some magical hole, but we’re prepared for any type of battle. The priests have all been blessing buckets and buckets of arrows and crossbow bolts. They’re the best thing next to magic to destroy fiends.
“The walls are solid and weren’t damaged at all when we were transported here. We lost less than two dozen men and women during the first attack. Our food stores look good. I’m certain we can weather this disaster like we have the other battles that have found Phlan.”
With Celie safely inside her cottage, Tarl gripped his basket and turned for home. Despite the late hour, Tarl stopped to help Celie’s neighbors shutter their windows and rescue a cat trapped on a roof.
As Tarl hurried through the streets, he noticed a crowd gathered in a tiny square. Wondering what would keep these folks out in the streets at such a late hour, he approached.
Tarl recognized an ancient warrior named Garanos standing on a stone bench, addressing the crowd. The people seemed restless, but they were listening intently. Garanos was a renowned hero of Phlan and perhaps its oldest warrior. His tone was proud and inspiring.
“Even the flight of dragons three centuries ago did not destroy our city. We refused to surrender, in spite of the horrors and the sieges. We have always been a strong, spirited people. Our ancestors accepted disasters as a way of life, but fought hard and conquered even the worst enemies.
“No wizard or scholar in all of Faerun could explain why hundreds of dragons would take to the skies and wreak devastation on the countryside. But Phlan survived and rebuilt after the dragon attacks. That was before my great-great-grandfather was born. Phlan became an important trade center and sailing port. Merchants came to depend on our waters. But we all know that this progress was not without a price.
“The influence of humans stirred up the creatures living in the older ruins of Phlan. But even the nightly raids that killed hundreds did not cause Phlan to collapse. Our relatives banded together to save their city. Hordes of creatures streamed down from the north, from the Dragonspine Mountains and the Grey Land of Thar. Still Phlan refused to yield. Our city became an armed camp. Fortifications were built. The rings of walls that we now call home were constructed to stop the attacks of monsters. Those walls have protected us for decades, and they protect us still.”
Garanos noticed Tarl standing at the back of the crowd. He shouted to the cleric to join him. Those who watched also began chanting Tarl’s name. Flushing slightly, Tarl wound through the throng and stepped up onto the bench.
“Noble citizens,” Tarl began, “you have every reason to be proud of Phlan’s past and be hopeful for her future. Time and war have reddened our stone walls, but like those stones, we must stand firm.
“For the past three hundred years, since the flight of dragons, our city has grown stronger and prospered despite repeated attacks. Armies of slavering, headhunting orcs, squads of evil mercenaries, and packs of enchanted monsters all have tried to breach Phlan’s defenses. Attacks have come night and day, in rain, snow, and fog. But our ancestors never surrendered.
“Serving on the walls in defense of the city became a high honor in which every citizen took pride. Phrases like, “ ‘I was at the wall during the breaching of the full moon,’ or ‘I was at the wall during the hydra attack,’ became common badges of courage. Sections of the walls still bear names like Orc’s Bane, Denlor’s Last Stand, Beholder Massacre, or Bonemarch.
“I inspected the northern gates, those we call the Death Gates, only this morning. They stand as strong as ever. Many of you oldtimers will remember the history of those gates. They started out as the North Gates. They were renamed the Black Company Gates after five hundred mercenaries died battling a horde of ogres. Then the name became the Goblin Spine Gates after an army of goblins and orcs tried to rip them apart and storm the city. Ogre Gates, Fire Giant Gates, and Beholder Gates were all used at one time or another to mark the horrors that have attacked Phlan. Eventually, they became known as the Death Gates. The name stays with us and feels right to all those who defend the city.”
Tarl stopped as an old wizard floated out of the sky and landed on the bench beside the two men. The crowd applauded as they recognized Auranzath, a powerful wizard and self-appointed town historian. Orange robes and a black beard fluttered around him.
“See here now,” Auranzath croaked. “It sounds to me like you folk are runnin’ like scared chickens! What would your grandpappys say? They saw times worse than this and never complained! They had a job to do and they did it!” He waved his staff toward the southwest corner of the city, and his voice became animated before the captive audience. “You all know of the Broken Tower. But how many of you really know its story? That tower guarded the docks and the beach entrance to the city. The wall that ringed the tower was a favorite point of attack for monsters. Horde after horde, like the waves of the Moonsea, crashed against the tower walls. Armies of monsters used battering rams and powerful magic to try to break through. Three times the walls broke. Hobgoblins, goblins, and hill giants streamed through the breaches, expecting easy loot and frightened prey! But each time, the monsters found another wall. From inside Phlan, a wall of steel and living flesh pushed into the monsters! The attackers were forced back, leaving their dead in the Broken Tower. Warriors, filled with pride, would later be heard saying they had been part of the victory at the Broken Tower. My great-great-Uncle Ezra was one of those! If he were here today, he’d be telling you to buck up! Show some pride! Show whoever stuck us in this damned cave what we’re made of!”
The wizard thumped the bench with his cane as the crowd cheered. Garanos grinned at Tarl and Auranzath. Above the noise of the mob, he confided in the two
men. “These fine people seemed ready to surrender everything! It was going to be a tough fight to inspire them. Thanks be to the gods for sending you two along!” The trio smiled at the noisy crowd, then Tarl raised his hands for attention. When the mob settled, he ordered them all home with instructions to prepare for the following day and the coming fight. As the throng dispersed, Tarl thanked Garanos and Auranzath for their efforts. Grabbing his basket, the cleric headed for his own section of the city.
The citizens had a right to be upset. No one knew how or why the city had been abducted, and the horror of it was only beginning to take its toll.
A hundred yards ahead of Tarl stood his home—one of the most renowned places in Phlan. Denlor’s Tower had seen conflict after conflict in the years of war. It was the outermost northeast point of the city. A wizard named Denlor had constructed its magical, blood-red walls overnight in the middle of the creature-infested ruins of old Phlan. The tower was designed as a symbol of strength and a challenge to attackers everywhere. Denlor’s Tower also became a magnet for both evil and good spellcasters. Clerical and magical defenders of Phlan had flocked to the tower, trading lightning bolts, fireballs, mystical vapors of death, and other destructive magics in the darkness. After years of constant defeats for the evil shamans and wizards, Denlor was treacherously assassinated. Soon after Denlor’s death, another powerful wizard arrived and took over the defense of the tower. Although new names were suggested for the structure, the sorceress insisted that the old one stand. No one argued with a sorceress who could slay dozens of orcs with a wave of her hand.
Tarl sighed as he thought about the first time he’d met Shal Bal of Cormyr, the sorceress who ruled the tower nowadays. Back then she was having some problems dealing with Denlor’s death and other magical mishaps. Tarl was suffering from the loss of some of his fellow clerics. They made an unlikely pair, but together with Ren, another new-found friend, the trio conquered their own personal torments and helped rid Phlan of hundreds of monsters in the process. That was ten years ago. It seemed like yesterday.
The cleric blushed slightly as he thought of the way that the threesome’s exploits had become famous in Phlan. They were honored heroes of the town. Any of them could have easily risen to be a ruling councilman, but these were honors they always refused. All three wanted only peace for Phlan and themselves.
The streets of Phlan were nearly deserted by the time Tarl entered Denlor’s Tower. The door banged shut behind him, and he turned to secure the lock. “Shal?” he called up the spiraling stairs. Gripping his basket, he raced up the stairs, two at a time, in search of his wife. He found her upstairs in her reading room. As he unpacked the basket, they discussed a topic the cleric had come to dread.
“Tarl, First Councilman Kroegel wants you to join the council. I think it’s a good idea. Your temple leaders think it’s a good idea. Phlan needs a strong leader on the council, and you’re the best man for the job. If you don’t take it, we might get stuck with Gormon on the council. And the only position he’s suited for is chief of sanitation.”
Irritated, Tarl paced around the reading room and into Shal’s spellcasting chamber. He thought much better on his feet, and he needed to think clearly right now. He wasn’t good at resisting his wife. “Shal, you know why. You’ve been asked to join the council as many times as I have. Please, let’s not fight about this. We both know I’m a priest, not a politician. Besides, now that I’m Phlan’s military advisor, I’ll never get any rest. I can’t juggle both positions.”
“Rest! Is that all you think about is rest? If ever Phlan needed you, it’s now. Fiends and armies are threatening the city!”
Tarl stopped his pacing and went to her side. He tried to put his arms around his beloved wife.
“Don’t even try it, cleric,” she snapped, shaking him off. Tarl was a big man, six feet tall and all muscle, but an old mishap with a magical wish had left him shorter than his wife and less muscled. When she didn’t want to be touched, she usually got her way.
Shal’s purple robes swished about her with a life of their own. Tarl smiled, thinking that something magical probably did give her clothes some animation. His mind wandered as he thought how wonderful it would be to spend some time as her clothing, wrapped around her firm body and feeling her every move. He sighed but was abruptly brought back to reality.
“Tarl, we aren’t through arguing about the councilman’s position.” Shal spoke in her most authoritative voice, waving a finger at him. It was the same finger that had launched purple fireballs and lightning bolts to halt ogres and giants in their tracks.
“Look, Kroegel gave me until the end of the week to give him my answer. Can’t we forget about this for a while? Let’s enjoy this peaceful interlude while it lasts. We both know an attack could come at any time.” Tarl had discovered the poppyseed cake in his basket and now held it up for Shal to see. Taking a bite, he teased her. “Mmm, I’m really hungry!”
Shal saw through his diversion but allowed herself to succumb. She suddenly realized she was ravenously hungry. Striding over to her husband, she broke off a piece of cake and wrapped her arm around his waist. “Don’t think you’ll get out of this discussion so easily next time,” she said softly.
“I know you far better than that. I wouldn’t think of it.” He kissed her hair, and the couple sat down to dine on the bread, cheese, and apples from Tarl’s basket.
Shal grew more and more quiet as they ate. Finally she looked at her husband with wide eyes. “Tarl, I’m scared.”
The cleric leaned close and wrapped his arms around the sorceress. “As long as I’m here, there is no force in this world that can hurt you. What’s scaring you?”
Shal sighed. “Just being here in this hole is enough to frighten anyone. Not knowing how or why we’re here makes it worse. But I’ve used all the detection spells I know and haven’t learned anything. The other wizards in Phlan are in the same predicament. You’d think that we’d be able to figure something out. I know that somewhere out there is a great evil ready to pounce on Phlan, and we’re almost powerless to do anything about it.”
This worried Tarl. His wife usually showed more confidence. “Come with me,” he whispered.
He led Shal through her casting chamber to their favorite balcony. Denlor’s Tower was high enough to survey most of the city, and part of the Moonsea, too, had they not been deep in some cavern.
“Shal, what can I do to do to make you feel safe?” He could feel her tension and wished he could just rinse it away with a warm bath and a mug of tea. But this was more serious, and Tarl knew it. “I don’t mean the kind of safe the farmers get when they lock the door at night. Or the kind of safe my Aunt Dorinna gets when she puts that disgusting smelling mud all over her face.”
His last comment brought a giggle. “Your Uncle Arnis really hates that stuff. You don’t like it much either, do you? Lately, I’ve been thinking about trying it. Maybe it’ll keep me looking young.” Tarl rolled his eyes, but was glad to see some humor coming from his wife. He held her close.
“I want to make you happy—as happy as our lives will allow. It’s hard being in the front of battles all the time. Half the time when we’re hurling spells and fighting side by side, I’m terrified at the thought of you facing the same blades and awful creatures I face.”
Shal’s chest heaved. “I’m sorry I’m so upset. This whole mess is getting the better of me. The best we can do is to keep looking for a way to rescue the city.”
Tarl stroked his wife’s hair and gently led her back inside. “What you need is a good back rub,” he whispered. Shal smiled and sat down on the bed. As she tugged on her robe, a voice sounded in the street below.
“The alarm!” Tarl said, disappointed. He and Shal dashed about to gather weapons and prepare for battle. “Sorry, love. I’ll have to owe you that back rub.”
Shal laughed as they hurried out the door. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you forget! Now, let’s go see if we can’t quash our enemies o
nce and for all!”
Dark Castings
Impenetrable darkness filled the casting chamber at the top of the magical tower. In the cool blackness, a horrid pit fiend basked in the silence. It flapped about the chamber with its twenty-foot bat wings, drooling and slobbering. The room’s stale air held the salty-sweet smell of blood that the fiend savored. It inhaled through flared nostrils, drinking in the foul scent. The heinous killer, summoned from the Nine Hells, was thrilled with his new assignment and accommodations. In all his soulless existence, he couldn’t remember a better opportunity or one that promised more fun.
Marcus, a Red Wizard from Thay, had foolishly summoned the fiend to the Prime Material Plane to help do the bidding of the god Bane. The fiend and the wizard were to add their personal touches to their god’s plan, and if all worked out right, in a few years two new evil demigods would be loose on Toril.
“Aaargh,” the fiend groaned in pleasure. “It’s good to be back on this plane, regardless of the outcome of the battle. Ah, better wars will come. Latenat!” Green sticky goo dripped from the fiend’s foot-long fangs. The acidic slime oozed to the ground and sizzled, making coin-sized pits in the black granite. Similar indentations covered the entire floor.
The massive bulk of the twelve-foot fiend zipped quickly around the room as it cast powerful spells. Its black bat wings glowed red as the beast conjured several unique protection spells. Giant taloned hands evoked detection and communication spells simultaneously, and as the spells activated, each talon became red-hot, the color of molten metal. The creature barely noticed the heat.
The fiend circled the chamber repeatedly, in exactly the same loop every time, but followed no markings a human eye could detect. The creature’s bare feet, humanlike despite their three foot length, emitted streams of hot, jet-black sparks. A single spark would have burned right through the flesh of a normal creature, but each fist-sized flare bounced off its crusty, ebony skin.
Pools of Darkness Page 4
