Pools of Darkness

by James M. Ward

  “I managed to collect some water from a pool of radiance. What I didn’t know was that the pool was in a transformation and was becoming a pool of darkness. The unstable liquid caused all my experiments to backfire, creating horrible side effects. A portion of my lab blew up. I was knocked out with the explosion. I woke up four days later, lying on the floor of my wrecked lab.

  “I was only slightly injured, but changed forever. My mind and body were reversed about fifty years. I was once again a twenty-year-old woman. All but my most basic powers were gone and I was forced to start my life over. I could remember the powers I had and what I’d once known, but I had nothing to work with. You can’t believe how frustrating it was.

  “I sought out one of my former students and asked him to teach me the same things I had taught him. Fortunately, learning spells the second time was easier than the first. Occasionally, snatches of memory would come back.” She sighed mournfully. “Over the next ten years, he was able to teach me much of what I had lost. And since then, I’ve spent my time traveling and learning. I’ve made the study of magic my life’s work, but you’ll rarely find me cooped up in library.

  “Years later, I learned that the fiend who was transforming the pool sent incredible energies at me through the water I had stolen. The creature tried to kill me, but the unstable waters twisted the magic. Instead, I suffered the loss of my powers.

  “I’m still trying to regain skills I once had, but I’m no longer driven by greed to amass power. I seek to learn all I can to enhance my magical powers and destroy those vile pools. There’s no reason for such things to exist. They cause nothing but pain and suffering.”

  Evaine sipped at her cup while the others tried to comprehend her story. Andoralson poured the wizard a second mug of tea, then gingerly asked the question that was nagging him. “Are you telling us you’re actually one hundred years old?”

  The sorceress looked at him with an embarrassed smile. “That’s just about right. I was seventy-eight when the transformation happened, and I estimate I reverted to twenty. That was fourteen years ago.”

  Andoralson patted her shoulder sympathetically. Evaine clasped his hand affectionately, but discouraged the sad look on his face. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I was bitter and angry at first, but I’ve accepted my situation. I am determined to hunt down these pools. I once sought power for its own sake, but now I have a purpose in life like I’ve never had before. I suffered a great loss, but I’ve also gained a great deal. Not many people get to live their lives a second time.”

  The wizard’s gentle tone changed to one of determination. “So now you know why I’m here. I’m going to destroy the pool of darkness hidden in Phlan, and no snotty little wizard or his fiend from the pits of the Nine Hells is going to stop me. After this one is gone, Gamaliel and I will move on to the next one. If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll destroy all of those vile puddles.”

  Evaine drained her mug. Ren idly poked at the fire’s glowing embers with a stick. Drowsiness was overtaking all of them. Once again, they climbed into bedrolls.

  As they began to get settled, Ren spoke up. “We’ll get that wizard for you, Evaine, and the pool, too. And we’ll find my friends and rescue Phlan. After tomorrow, there’ll be one less magical blight on Faerun.”

  Subtle Assault

  Since the day it had been torn from its home on the Moonsea, Phlan had been attacked so many times that most of its citizens had lost count. Once again, they were under siege. Only this time, no one knew it.

  When the lights in the cavern died, the city was alerted and all guards were summoned to their posts on the walls. Wizards and priests appeared at their stations, preparing to cast their most powerful spells at the enemy. Children were called indoors, shutters were bolted. The city silently waited for the attack.

  In the dark stillness of the streets of Phlan, a lone voice was heard. A bard known only as Latenat brought his message of peace and hope to the desperate city. He walked the inroads and avenues of Phlan, singing his message of rescue. In his wake, housewives packed whatever possessions they could carry and dressed their children for a long journey. The end of their imprisonment had finally come. The bard would show them the way out of the wretched cave.

  Crowds of hopeful people began filling the streets. Those who had packed for the escape encouraged reluctant neighbors to join them.

  As the residents milled about, snatches of the bard’s songs could be heard amid excited conversation. The tunes were infectious, and the voices in the streets grew to an incredible din.

  On the city walls, distraught guard captains dispatched several dozen warriors to the streets. The citizens were endangering themselves by remaining outdoors. And the clamor was loud enough to drown out the sound of approaching cavalry. In the darkness, the guards had little other than sound to warn them of an attack.

  But the warriors who were sent to keep the peace quickly became part of the chaos. Forgetting their tasks, they returned home to pack their valuables and join their families. The bard’s infectious song did not discriminate. Following his instructions, the warriors left their weapons at home, collected their money and jewels, and gathered in the streets. More warriors had to be diverted from the walls to the streets.

  The bard tirelessly continued his stroll through Phlan, singing his tales of redemption. No one seemed to notice that the bard had been singing for over twenty-four hours without a break.

  Little by little, the city walls were drained of warriors. Soon they were no longer defensible.

  Finally, the glorious, wondrous bard signaled his flock. The masses began to move toward the Death Gates. The people sang and danced their way through the streets, charmed by the captivating man and bewitched by his songs.

  The spellbound crowd called for the gates to be opened. The guards refused, but Latenat began another song. As his melody rose, the warriors forgot their objections. Puzzled, they looked at each other and at the gate machinery.

  Then the minstrel’s song was interrupted.

  A voice rang out, ordering that the Death Gates remain closed. Booted feet pounded along the top of the wall, coming to a halt on the gate. Tarl, gripping the glowing Warhammer of Tyr, planted himself firmly at the head of the throng. He tried his best to appear calm, but his anger was evident.

  A few feet behind him, waiting on the stone wall, stood Shal. She was wrapped head to toe in a purple cloak, but to anyone with magical abilities, it was obvious she was also wrapped in strong protective magics. Six other wizards moved along the wall beside her.

  The bard ended his song, turning his back on Tarl and Shal. He raised his hands for silence, then addressed the crowd. “Noble people of Phlan, your famous champions are here to lead you and protect you on your way. Let us thank them for their bravery!” A deafening roar erupted as the mob cheered.

  Behind Latenat’s back, Shal cast a spell to learn something of this strange bard. The purple beams bathed the bard and bounced off his flesh, but revealed nothing of his true nature.

  “Noble heroes, it is wonderful to have you join us in our bid for freedom and safety,” the bard laughed. A magical suggestion was wrapped in his voice. But the spell had no effect on Tarl, Shal, or the other wizards.

  “Noble bard, we haven’t been introduced. My name is Tarl, and I represent the Council of Phlan. I would like to know why you’ve brought my people to this gate.”

  A hearty laugh arose from the bard, and his syrupy answer lilted up to the cleric.

  “Tarl—brother—dear friend—I am the bard Latenat! I’ve been sent by the gods of fortune to release these people!” Once again, the bard turned away from Tarl and addressed the crowd surrounding him. “These wonderful people of Phlan must be freed from this dreadful cave and from the dangers they face. They must again walk in the sunlight and cultivate the earth the gods have given them!”

  A roar again erupted in the streets, and the mob began chanting, “We are freed, we are freed, we are freed!”


  Tarl bellowed to be heard over the noise. “I wish you to be free of danger, too! But leaving the walls of the city will not save you from the foes that have attacked us for months! You will march to certain death!”

  “Shall I sing a song to answer Tarl?” the bard asked the crowd.

  “A song—sing us a song!” the crowd called back.

  The bard raised his lute and addressed Tarl.

  “Noble and fearless stood a fine priest,

  His city and people behind him,

  They battled and fought but could not slay the beast,

  So Tarl led the charge to a new land.”

  Latenat continued, verse after verse, about Tarl and his heroics. So persuasively did the bard sing that even Tarl began to wonder whether it wasn’t indeed time for the people of Phlan to leave.

  He looked longingly at the men who stood by to raise the gates. Shal knew it was time to step in.

  “Tarl, dear husband! Hear my voice and no other!” She turned to the peculiar minstrel. “Sing no more songs, bard or whatever you are. No one is going with you.”

  Shal levitated herself into the air, a vision of magical power. As Shal glared down at the bard, the bewitched crowd became filled with fear. At one time or another, everyone had seen her power used against armies of monsters. There was no doubt she could blast the crowd to cinders if she wished.

  “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.

  The Pool Beckons

  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 ne
ver 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.