Tarl gazed at his wife with admiration and frustration. He shook his head in defeat and opened the door for her. By the gods, he loved this woman.
First Councilman Kroegel rose to meet the pair. “So glad you could attend our meeting. In these troubled times, it is comforting to have loyal citizens to defend Phlan.”
Tarl bowed to His Holiness, Seventh Councilman Wahl. He was pleasurably reminded that a cleric of Tyr had held a seat on the council for the last hundred years. Tarl had been offered the seat, but he shunned politics. Administrative duties didn’t appeal to his free spirit. Bishop Wahl was an excellent alternative; he and Tarl had always seen eye to eye on matters in the past.
Fifth Councilwoman Bordish motioned to several comfortable padded benches. “We’ve called you here to discuss an effort at peace.”
“We’re here to talk about a raid into the cavern, not about peace,” Tarl said, jumping up and pacing before the Council of Ten. “How can you even think of talking peace? We’ve been attacked repeatedly and our homes have been moved to gods-only-know-where. If whoever did this had any intention of negotiating, don’t you think we’d know by now? I don’t see that we’re in any position to bargain!”
“Sit down, Tarl,” Bishop Wahl replied gently. “I posed the same concern to the council over the past two days. They want to attempt a truce, and I want you to lead the contingent making the attempt. If something goes wrong, the envoys at least have a chance of making it back to the city.”
“With Tarl and I along, you can be sure of that,” Shal said, smiling to her husband.
“You can’t go,” Tarl hissed under his breath. He gave her a silent stare that meant they would talk privately later. He turned to the council. “I will lead your peace mission. I want Thorvid of Porter, Alaric the White, and Pomanz as companions. I also want my opinion entered in the official record that this isn’t going to work. I think the effort is doomed.”
“Your fears are noted,” sneered Fourth Councilwoman Eldred. “But the men you picked are all knights. How do you expect to talk peace with only warriors at your back?”
“I’ll do all the talking. Those men are along to provide muscle if we’re attacked. We’ll leave within the hour. Please alert the knights I have named and ask them to wait at the Death Gates.”
Husband and wife walked out of the council chambers, hurrying toward Denlor’s Tower.
“Shal, I know you’re angry and I know you want to come along. But I have a more important job for you. I’m going to try this peace attempt, but I’m sure it’ll fail. I need you standing by to save this delegation when we’re attacked.”
The sorceress’s mood softened. She smiled at her husband as they headed down the cobbled street. “I suspected you had some plan in mind. I appreciate the idea of riding in like an avenging angel when you get in trouble. I’ll watch you magically and jump in when I’m needed. Just make sure nothing happens to you until I get there.”
The couple walked arm in arm to their tower to prepare once again for war.
An hour later, Tarl and his party stood before the Death Gates, ready to leave. The cleric scowled at the truce flags his men carried.
Above the cavern that held Phlan hostage, high in the vermilion-stoned tower, the Red Wizard seethed.
“Truce flags? They can’t surrender! I just finished lining up all the forest creatures sent by that fiendish god Moander. If Phlan surrenders, I can’t pull down the walls,” Marcus raved. “Tell them to go back to their pathetic city and suffer my wrath for resisting!” Red robes swirled as the fuming mage paced his chamber.
The mercenary commander who brought the message had turned to leave when a commanding voice shouted, “Stop! Latenat!”
“Fiend, don’t hinder me now! Keep to your room and I will handle the war down below,” Marcus said, conversing with the air around him.
The mercenary hadn’t moved, but was silently confirming his opinion that no amount of gold was worth this job.
“Marcus,” the voice continued calmly, “we are ordered to deliver as many souls as possible from Phlan into the pool of darkness. Do you suppose when you use the trees of Moander, the very trees of death I gave you, that a few of those souls might be lost in the battle? Latenat!”
“Yes, a few of the rabble can be expected to perish. On the other hand, after the dust clears, Phlan will be defeated, which accomplishes my personal goals. That’s what’s really important, after all.”
The throne room suddenly became filled with the smell of blood. The now-terrified mercenary observed a distinct dimming of the lights in the chamber. A chill ran up his spine.
“Maaar-cus,” the voice became honey-sweet. “Would you please dismiss your commander? Latenat!”
“Yes, of course.” The Red Wizard of Thay waved the mercenary away. “I will get back to you momentarily with my decisions. Leave me now.”
The warrior of Bane departed in relief. He noticed a dark object growing in the wizard’s hand, but didn’t want to be around long enough to learn what it was.
In the red-gold throne room, the pit fiend appeared, accompanied by a loud thunderclap.
“Master, do you still wish to become a demigod on this plane? Latenat!”
“Of course, fool. I haven’t gone to all this effort to have my plans upset.”
“Knowing this is your will, how can you expect me to make you all-powerful? You have left me only the souls of a washer woman and a baker boy to absorb through the pool! Latenat!”
“What do you mean, fiend? Make your thoughts known, I order you!” Marcus held the black heart out for the fiend to see and covet.
The pit fiend ignored the implied threat and stomped his twelve-foot body up to the throne of the wizard. The monster glared into his eyes.
“The more people you kill, the fewer souls remain for our purposes. Do you think you could use that famous cunning Red Wizards are known for and trick these people? Let them believe they can leave the city, according to their free will. Entice the populace into the pool of darkness. Latenat!”
Green drool splashed from the fiend’s fangs and splattered on the red-gold floor of the throne room. The sticky, acidic poison hissed and sparked red. This time, however, the acid left no trace.
Marcus smiled. He had grown disgusted with the condition of the floor of his spellcasting chamber and had silently vowed that such oozing pockmarks wouldn’t mar his throne room any longer. With some effort, he had devised a spell to protect the floor from all types of slimes. The Red Wizard, pleased with his game, gave the fiend a wide grin, thinking, It’s the little victories that really count, after all.
Marcus addressed his powerful servant. “Yes, I can trick this city of fools. But this game would be more fun if I could defeat Phlan with the armies you gave me. Unfortunately, you are right, my fine fiend. Souls are more important to our futures. Consider this trickery done. Now, go back to the spellcasting chamber. You are stinking up my beautiful throne room!”
“As you wish, master,” the deep voice grated as the fiend teleported out of the room.
“Fiends are such childlike creatures,” Marcus sighed, before arising to see to arrangements.
Alone in the throne room, the erinyes hopped out of her alcove to stretch her feathered wings. The creature flopped down in Marcus’s throne to lounge undisturbed. Having heard the entire conversation, she amused herself by dreaming of ways to vent her “childish” impulses on the entrails of the Red Wizard.
“A strange forest we ride through, my lord. I don’t remember a forest growing in this part of the cavern before.”
Eyeing the trees, the knight Thorvid sheathed his sword and unhooked a large battle-axe from his saddle. The four men on horseback slowly trotted through a forest of twisted, moldering trees. Moss dangled and swayed eerily from mottled brown branches.
“These trees are damn disturbing,” Tarl observed, drawing forth the Warhammer of Tyr. The ancient relic emitted a blaze of holy radiance. “My old comrade, Ren o’
the Blade, could have told us just what these trees are and what all that slimy fungus is on their branches. I know I’ve never smelled its like before. The stench is almost like the rotting smell of undead creatures.
“Is it possible that whoever transported us here practiced first on trees, and this is what happens when a forest exists underground too long?” Thorvid asked.
Tarl shuddered at the thought. “Pomanz, your father was a forester, wasn’t he? Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“I never have, and I don’t mind saying that I’ll be glad when we’re clear of them.” Pomanz sheathed his saber in exchange for his battle-axe. The three knights had battled together too many years to ignore each other’s hunches. If these trees were capable of attack, axes would slay them faster than swords. “And there’s something unnatural here. There’s no wind, yet the branches seem to wave in a breeze.”
“I don’t remember hearing about a forest in any of the scouting reports,” Alaric observed, swinging his axe in wide arcs to stretch his muscles.
Suddenly, the radiance of Tyr’s hammer glowed brighter and shone on a clearing ahead of the foursome. Bathed in the hammer’s glow, a Red Wizard of Thay stood before them. Gold-trimmed red robes flowed about the sorcerer, making him appear to hover over the ground. Black hair spilled down his back, matching a closely-trimmed beard. Steely eyes glared out from under bushy eyebrows. The wizard was an imposing sight, yet Tarl and his men were unimpressed.
“Welcome to my lands, noble knights,” Marcus sneered. “Judging from your flags of surrender, can I assume you intend to turn Phlan over to me?”
The four warriors spread out in a line in front of the wizard. The horses stamped nervously, tearing up the earth and uncovering tough tree roots just under the surface.
“Whom do I have the honor of addressing?” Tarl asked in his most polite tone.
“Why, foolish priest, I am Marcus, Red Wizard of Thay and your host. I am the man who singlehandedly transported Phlan to its current resting place. Now that the pleasantries are over, I ask again—have you come to surrender Phlan to me?”
The three knights left the negotiating to Tarl. Thorvid watched the trail behind them; Alaric watched the trees to the left; Pomanz guarded their right.
“You are very brave, Lord Marcus, to meet our truce parley without guards. We have come at the request of Phlan’s Council of Ten to talk terms of peace.” Tarl was barely able to contain his anger at the effrontery of the mage he faced, but much more than his pride was at stake. He was committed to play peacemaker.
The wizard answered haughtily. “I need no guards to protect me from your sort. As for terms of peace—there are none. I want your city. That’s why I transported all of Phlan’s buildings here. But all of the citizens may go, taking any goods they can carry. Take my message back to your Council of Ten.” Marcus turned to leave.
“Ignoring the fact that no one has the right to steal a city, where exactly are we?” Tarl asked.
The wizard turned to the riders, irritated. From the glare in his eyes, he clearly found them unworthy of his audience. “You are in a great cavern beneath my red tower. You are still in Faerun—at least physically. You may take my generous offer to leave safely or you may die. Now be gone.”
Thorvid raised his battle-axe. “Why, you arrogant son of—” Tarl seized the knight’s arm, even as he struggled to contain his own anger. Taking a deep breath, Tarl addressed the wizard.
“Before I take your offer back to my people for discussion, I would like to see how we’ll get out of this cavern. And I need your guarantee of safety for the people of Phlan.”
“Why, of course. Your wish is reasonable. You won’t be able to take your horses up my stairs, but do come along.” The wizard floated on puffs of red flame down a wide trail between the trees.
Tightening their grips on their weapons, the four warriors fought to control their skittish mounts as they rode behind the wizard.
After perhaps fifty yards, the forest opened up at the side of the cavern. A section of the cave wall melted away in a red mist, revealing a wide staircase spiraling upward.
“Only you, priest, need to see the exit out of my tower. Send the rest of your rabble back to the city.”
“Where our lord goes, we follow,” Pomanz declared, keeping a wary eye for signs of any trap.
To keep the peace, Tarl was about to agree with the Red Wizard’s request, but the wizard suddenly flew into a rage. He fairly bellowed at the four men.
“Knight, know that I am Marcus, a mage of extraordinary power. You are nothing compared to my might. You will do as I say or I will destroy you.” The wizard produced a sparking, popping ball of crimson energy in his right hand. His red robes writhed about him.
“There will be no combat. We are under flags of parley. Surely, even the Red Wizards of Thay recognize such conventions of war.”
“Oh, we recognize them all right. This is our answer to such knightly foolishness.” A wave of his left hand caused the two white flags to ignite and crumble to ash.
“Wizard, you go too far!” Tarl shouted, raising his glowing hammer.
Another wave of the mage’s hand caused the ground to rumble underfoot. “No! I have not gone nearly far enough! You can all meet my pool of darkness or face my thorny horrors in the forest. There is no surrender and no escape. My pit fiend was stupid to think I could get anything from you this way. Good-bye.”
The wizard blinked out in a blast of red flame.
“Something’s happening behind us!” Thorvid shouted.
The forest was writhing and shifting. Every tree was becoming a horribly twisted parody of a human. Tree limbs turned into giant arms; roots heaved from the ground, growing into huge legs; trunks twisted with loud groans into massive, pulsing chests and heads.
Tarl hurriedly searched for an escape. They could go up the stairs into the darkness and whatever trap Marcus had prepared, or they could meet the tree monsters head on.
“Tarl!” Pomanz pointed to the right.
The mystical light in the cavern showed a narrow path through the forest. The companions spurred their mounts into the narrow gap between the trees and the edge of the cavern.
A mile-wide swath of groaning, twisting trees slowly encroached on the path at the cavern wall, squeezing it tighter and tighter. The warriors threw aside lances and equipment to lighten the loads on the galloping horses, but each man could see they weren’t moving fast enough to escape. Tarl led the charge toward the perimeter. “This would be a good time, Shal!” he screamed.
Back in the red tower, Marcus and the pit fiend watched the wild ride from a crystal scrying sphere.
“If she’s coming to save them, your trees won’t be able to stop the cleric and his friends. Latenat!”
“I know, but maybe the minions of Moander can kill one or two of them. Look—his hammer isn’t even bruising the bark. Moander certainly has a talent for perverting things of nature.” The wizard rubbed his hands with glee.
“Couldn’t you have tried harder to trick them into moving up the stairs? Latenat!” The fiend was disgusted with the failure of the parley.
“No, this is much better. Tomorrow, or perhaps in a few days, after I have rested, I will lead those tree minions in a final attack on the city. We will pull down the walls once and forever. But we’ll be careful, of course, to capture the defenders and not kill too many of them. Then Phlan and all its souls will be ours.”
Marcus paced the chamber in delight, anticipating the glorious future. Tanetal rubbed his greasy forehead, wondering what Bane would do with them when all the plans failed. The fiend stared into the scrying crystal.
Tarl and the warriors thundered along the narrow corridor next to the cavern wall. Responding to a magical voice in his head, the ranger screamed to the others. “Hold your breath until the mist clears!” A purple haze materialized at the edge of the trees and drifted into the forest. The moving branches temporarily halted, but as the haze faded, the
trees resumed their encroachment.
A wall of ice and snow blasted out of the sky, forming a frozen drift at the edge of the forest. The trees slowed their squirming, and the fungus that dripped from the branches froze solid and fell off in huge chunks. Within moments, the ice began to melt and a cloud of steam arose. The trees resumed their unnatural assault.
Finally, a pinpoint of light appeared above Tarl’s head. Growing brighter and brighter, the speck swelled to a ball larger than a warrior’s helmet. It followed the cleric as it blazed forth with the intensity of the sun.
The unholy forest recoiled at the blinding light. Trees and plants ahead of Tarl all veered away as he approached. The four riders thundered onward, now unhindered. Less than five minutes later, they burst from the forest to charge across the grassy plain, their mounts streaked with white foam from the hard ride. Tarl called out to his unseen wife. “Nice going, Shal!”
Up in Denlor’s Tower, the sorceress smiled in relief.
The reaction in the enemy camp was much different. In Marcus’s tower, the fiend slammed his fist into the crystal sphere, smashing it to powder.
Disturbing Clues
“Fair travelers, we would approach!” A voice rang through the woods, warning the sleeping camp of incoming strangers.
Miltiades, always awake, stood guard. Ren had awakened early to share the morning watch. They heard scuffling sounds in the woods long before the voice announced the presence of travelers. Overhead, dark stormclouds still rumbled and swirled, but the sky had lightened with the sunrise. Three men astride huge wolves trotted into camp.
Minutes earlier, Gamaliel had sensed their coming and awakened his mistress and the rest of the party.
“Friendly faces are welcome, but be warned, we are a formidable band,” Ren replied to their hail.
Dismounting, the three strode toward the group. They were a rough lot with shaggy black hair and torn, homespun clothing. None showed any weapons—a fact the companions found unusual for woodland travelers. No weapons, that is, except for the three enormous wolves.
Pools of Darkness Page 16
