“I think you saved my life, Listle,” he’d said breathlessly after telling the elf about his dream.
“That’s all right, Kern,” she had replied flippantly. “Something tells me it won’t be the last time.” Despite her casual demeanor, fear had shone in her silver eyes.
Kern had made a resolution to himself, then. The next time he was plagued by a nightmare, he was determined to fight back and take control of the dream.
Clad in his usual gray tunic and breeches, Kern made his way down the spiral staircase in the center of Denlor’s Tower. This last day had been a difficult one. Yesterday, Shal had ventured on a spirit journey with the sorceress Evaine, hoping to learn something about the enemy behind the attack on the temple. But something had gone wrong. His mother had cried out in shock and then fell into a deep unconsciousness from which she had not woken. She lay now in her chamber, pale, silent, and terribly still.
Patriarch Anton had come to visit Shal three times already, but so far none of his healing spells had been successful. His diagnosis was grim. If Shal could not be awakened, she might eventually waste away. Already, dusky shadows had gathered in her cheeks and on her temples. There was only one thing that might have the power to wake her. The Hammer of Tyr. That made Kern’s task all the more urgent.
Kern had decided to leave on the morrow. He found his father in the tower’s main chamber. The two discussed preparations for the journey, but Kern did not tell Tarl about last night’s disturbing dream. Shal’s illness was burden enough.
“One last thing, Kern,” the white-haired cleric of Tyr said. His face was haggard, his voice hoarse. He had stayed up all night, watching over Shal and sending prayers to Tyr, pleas that had gone unanswered. “You’re going to need a new weapon.”
Kern nodded. His hammer had been destroyed in the encounter with Slayer, the abishai.
“Could I choose one from your armory?”
Tarl shook his head. “I think not. I’d be happy to give you anything I have, but I don’t know that a mundane warhammer—no matter how good—will be of much use to you. I fear that many of the foes you’ll be facing will be magical in nature, and for that you will need a special weapon.”
“But where am I going to find an enchanted hammer by tomorrow?” Kern asked in dismay.
“That’s where I come in,” said a silvery voice. With a shameless lack of decorum, Listle rose right up through the stone floor to stand between Tarl and Kern. Her teardrop-shaped ruby pendant flashed brilliantly for a moment on the end of its silver chain. “Now come on, Kern. We don’t have all day, you know.”
“All day for what?” he demanded in exasperation.
“Haven’t you been listening?” The elf rolled her eyes in exaggerated frustration. “We’re going to get you a warhammer, you oaf.”
An hour later found Kern and Listle on horseback, the city of Phlan outlined in shadow on the horizon behind them.
“You never told me you had friends who lived near Phlan, Listle.” Kern sat astride a handsome white palfrey, and Listle rode a delicate dappled gray mare.
“You never asked,” she replied glibly.
“Now how did I know that was what you were going to say?” Kern grumbled.
The late autumn day was gray and dreary, heavy with a shroud of mist. Their mounts picked their way along a twisting trail in a forest a few leagues east of Phlan. A few drab brown leaves clung to the skeletal branches of the trees, rattling like bones in the chill wind. All this did little to improve Kern’s mood.
“Actually, Kern,” Listle went on more seriously, “I never mentioned my friends before because they’re a rather secretive lot. And, as a rule, they don’t particularly care for humans.”
“Well, that’s just marvelous,” Kern said in a pained voice. “Where did you meet these friends, anyway?”
“Oh, in Evermeet,” Listle replied. “Hey, look there,” she said suddenly, pointing to the sky. A glistening white hawk wheeled in the mist above them. “Do you think that’s your father’s work or Patriarch Anton’s?”
Kern shrugged. “It could be the work of either, or possibly both. They’re obviously keeping an eye on us.”
It was a short while later that Kern noticed the change in the forest. The trees became green with leaves, and pale, sweet-scented wildflowers dotted the ground. It was as if they had abruptly left the advent of winter behind them, stepping through a doorway into spring. He looked at Listle in wonder.
She laughed brightly. “We’re almost there. Now behave yourself, and let me do the talking.”
A few minutes later they stopped at the roots of a huge, hoary old oak tree. It was truly a king of the forest, a massive giant that it would take a score of men with arms linked to encircle. Kern let out a whistle of amazement. The tree was at least a thousand years old.
Listle and Kern dismounted, looping the reins of their horses around a tree branch. The elf picked her way among the tree’s gnarled roots, then rapped smartly three times on its rough bark. Before Kern could ask what she was up to, a high, reedy voice spoke.
“Who goes there?” the voice piped. Kern searched around for the speaker—then his jaw dropped.
A bumpy knot on the tree’s trunk had transformed itself into a small gnarled face. Its lumpy nose ended in a small twig, and its eyes glowed caterpillar green. Listle appeared completely unsurprised.
“You know perfectly well who I am, Whorl,” Listle humphed. “Now open up. I’m here to see Primul.”
Whorl squinted suspiciously. “How do I know you’re really Listle Onopordum?” the knot said in a splintery voice. “Look! You’ve got an axe-bearing tree-cleaver with you.”
Kern cleared his throat nervously. “Actually, I don’t have an axe with me, er, Whorl.” He wasn’t really accustomed to talking to bumps on trees.
“Hmmm, well now,” Whorl mused. His twig-nose twitched in agitation. “You could be hiding an axe, waiting until I let my guard down to start chopping away at the old oak.”
Listle’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I’m getting tired of this, Whorl. Now open the door or …” Her ruby pendant sparkled as she plunged a hand deep into the wood of the tree directly beneath the knot. “… or I’ll squeeze off your supply of sap.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Whorl squeaked in horror.
“Try me.” Listle’s tone was serious.
“Primul will hear of this!”
“I have no doubt,” the elf said dryly. “Now open up!”
“Oh, all right!” Whorl’s gnarled face screwed up in concentration, and suddenly the wood of the tree trunk melded and shifted, revealing a perfectly round portal.
“Why, thank you, Whorl,” Listle said with mock pleasantry. The knot only scowled at her, drawing mossy eyebrows down over glowering eyes.
“Are you coming, Kern?”
He supposed he didn’t dare say no. With a furtive glance at Whorl, he followed Listle into the dimness of the doorway. The portal snapped shut tightly behind them. Listle whispered an incantation, and a pale sphere of light appeared above her head. Thanks to the magical illumination, Kern could see a stairway leading downward.
“Listle, where are we?” he demanded.
“In the dwelling of the green elf, Primul,” she replied matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge. “Now come on. Primul’s arguably the greatest blacksmith in all Faerun—at least in his own opinion, and I’ve seen no reason to doubt it. If you need a hammer to fight magical foes, this is the place to get it.”
She plunged nimbly down the stairs, with Kern hurrying after her.
They found themselves in a huge chamber illuminated by some soft, sourceless emerald glow. Kern looked around in wonder. The chamber was perfectly round, its lofty ceiling supported by a tangled web of tree roots. All around were countless glass cabinets filled with the most marvelous weapons Kern had ever laid eyes on: rune-carved broadswords and bright sabres, curved daggers and deadly maces, along with hundreds of other weapons, many of which he coul
d not even identify.
“Listle, just who is this Primul?”
“You’ll see.”
Suddenly, two sparks of light fluttered into the room. The sparks were almost identical in color, a shimmering aquamarine. Except that one was just a little more green than blue, while the other was just a tad more blue than green. The brilliant sparks whirled about, almost as if excited. Abruptly the two points of light flared brightly and vanished. In their stead stood two of the kindest-looking elderly men Kern had ever seen.
Both of them were small and frail, their parchment-thin skin drawn over fine bones. Each had long hair and a flowing beard of snowy white, and each clung tightly to a staff with bony hands. By their pointed ears, Kern knew they must be elves, but he had never heard of any elves as wizened as these two. They were clad in robes as white as their hair, and their eyes were the exact same aquamarine hue as the sparks of light had been, one pair blue-green and the other green-blue.
Listle laughed for joy at the sight of the two ancient elves. “Brookwine! Winebrook!” she cried, embracing them jubilantly. They returned the embrace warmly, smiling two perfect, sweet smiles.
“It is wonderful—” Brookwine said in a warbling voice.
“—to see you—” Winebrook went on in a similar tone.
“—again, friend Listle.” Brookwine finished.
Kern gawked at the two elves. They had spoken so rapidly in turn that it sounded almost as if only one person had been speaking.
“It has been quite—”
“—some time since we left—”
“—Sifahir’s tower behind. Will you—”
“—stay with us for a—”
“—time, fair Listle?”
Listle sighed. “Much as I would love to, I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve come on some dire business, Brookwine and Winebrook. It involves my friend here, Kern.”
“Ah, yes!” Brookwine said, raising his snowy eyebrows. “It is the Hammer—”
“—seeker,” Winebrook continued. “We are honored—”
“—to meet you, young human.”
Unsure how to behave, Kern attempted a stiff bow with at least partial success. “Er, pleased to meet you,” he managed to say. He wasn’t sure which elf was which.
“We shall go—”
“—tell Primul of—”
“—your coming,” the two wizened elves finished together. As quickly as they had materialized, they vanished. The two brilliant specks fluttered out of the chamber.
“How in the world can you tell them apart, Listle?” Kern asked when they had left.
“Isn’t it easy?” the elf said in a miffed tone. “Brookwine’s eyes are blue-green and Winebrook’s eyes are green-blue.”
“Oh, of course,” Kern mumbled abashedly.
Suddenly the air of the chamber was shattered by a thunderous voice.
“Listle Onopordum! Is it truly you?”
Kern spun around to see what had to be the hugest elf in all the northlands stride into the room. He towered head and shoulders over Kern, his massive shoulders and chest knotted thickly with muscle beneath his forest green tunic. His broad face was open and strikingly handsome. Long golden hair was tied behind his neck with a silver wire. Around his waist was an intricate belt of fine golden links. Rumbling with laughter that shook the tree-hall like an earthquake, the gigantic elf crushed Listle in an embrace.
After a minute or so, she good-naturedly reminded Primul that she needed to breathe, and he set her down. Kern could only shake his head. So much for the general impression that all elves were delicate and wispy.
“Now, who is this specimen you’ve brought to my tree, Listle?” the big elf boomed. He turned his blazing, leaf-green eyes on Kern. “A human whelp?” Kern did his best not to shrink down into the floor.
“He’s a friend, Primul,” Listle soothed. “A good friend. I’d like to keep him in one piece.”
Primul snorted. “Suit yourself. Although I’ll have you know humans make terribly amusing noises when you pop their limbs off.”
Kern blanched.
“Primul …” Listle warned.
“Sorry. Just having a little fun.” He grinned broadly at Kern and winked. “No hard feelings, eh?”
“Of c-c-course not,” Kern stammered.
Primul led the way to an expansive table where he firmly set his guests down and poured them each a cup of pale, sweet mead. The cup handed to Kern was beautifully crafted of silver, inlaid with lapis lazuli. Kern knew it was a vessel fit for a king’s hall, but Primul seemed to treat the chalices as if they were made of ordinary clay.
“Did you see Brookwine and Winebrook?” Primul asked Listle as he quaffed his third cup of mead in as many minutes.
Listle nodded. “They look wonderful.”
Primul rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, they’re better than when Sifahir had them in magical chains, that’s for sure. But something tells me they’ll never really be their old selves.” For a moment a look of sorrow crossed his broad face. Then his expression cheered. “Say, Kern, has Listle ever told you how she helped us escape from the tower of the evil wizard Sifahir?”
Kern shot a puzzled glance at Listle. What was Primul talking about? The young elf looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“That’s how we met,” Primul went on in his rumbling voice. “It was about ten years ago. You see, there was an elven wizard who lived on a small rocky island north of Evermeet, the homeland of the gray elves. His name was Sifahir, and you’ve never met a wizard with a darker heart. He brought all sorts of people under his enchantment, using them for his wicked purposes until the very life was squeezed out of them. Then he would throw their dried husks away without a second thought.”
The big elf shook his head sadly. “I won’t trouble you with all the dark deeds Sifahir performed to become one of the most powerful wizards in Faerun. It would give you a hard time sleeping at night just to think of it. Anyway, I had the misfortune of attracting Sifahir’s notice. Folks said I was the best blacksmith in a hundred kingdoms—they were right, of course—and Sifahir heard about me and decided he wanted me to be his own private smith. He sent an army of magical warriors to capture me, and they proved too much even for my axe.”
His leaf green eyes grew distant as he continued. “For two centuries I was imprisoned in Sifahir’s tower, forced to forge weapons for him and his minions if I cared to stay alive. After the first fifty years of trying to escape, I gave up all hope. Sifahir’s magic was just too strong.”
A realization struck Kern. “Brookwine and Winebrook—they were imprisoned by Sifahir, too?”
Primul nodded solemnly. “They had already been there for several centuries before I was captured. Both of them were mages of great skill, and Sifahir had chained them above the gates of his tower, harnessing and draining their magical power to fuel the vile defenses that surrounded his abode.”
Listle spoke up, her voice heavy with sorrow and her demeanor uncharacteristically subdued. “Sifahir twisted their magic to his own evil purposes, century after century. I don’t think we can ever understand what torture that must have been for them. That they survived at all is a wonder. I think it helped that they relied on each other so much, drawing closer and closer until the distinction between their personalities blurred, and they melded almost like one being. Together, they found the strength to survive.”
“But not without consequences,” Primul added sadly, pouring another cup of mead. “Once they were strong, handsome elves. Now their bodies are so fragile a good wind might blow them away. And the scars on their spirits are deep.
The green elf waved a big hand, dispelling the somber atmosphere. “But that is all ancient history. Sifahir had not counted on one of his prisoners being able to walk through walls of stone. Listle was the first person ever to escape from Sifahir’s tower. And her ability was such that she took the rest of us with her. For which we shall always be in her debt.”
Listle stood to bow deeply. “
It was my pleasure, master-smith.”
Kern scratched his head, trying to absorb this tale. He had never really thought much about Listle’s past. He had known she hailed from Evermeet, but that was all. Seeing her in a heroic light would take some adjustment. “Listle,” he ventured, “you haven’t told how you were captured by this Sifahir character.”
For just a moment, all the spark and humor drained out of Listle. She went utterly white. A hand unconsciously crept up to grip the ruby pendant at her throat. Primul shot her a questioning look, one golden eyebrow raised.
“It isn’t important,” she said stiffly.
Kern decided to let it go. Obviously she did not care to relive the painful memory. Someday, Kern vowed silently, this mage Sifahir is going to answer for what he did to Listle and her friends.
“Besides,” Listle said, resuming her typically brisk air, “we have more pressing things to attend to. Or have you forgotten about the Hammer of Tyr, Kern?”
The two took turns telling the elven blacksmith their story: the riddle of the tome, the plight of the clerics, and the predicament of Phlan. When they had finished, the big elf regarded Kern thoughtfully. “A warhammer for a quest, eh? All right, young human, follow me.”
Primul led them down a side passage that opened into a small chamber, lit by the ruddy glow of a furnace. The smell of hot steel hung sharply on the air, and the walls were lined with all manner of tools: pincers and vises, hammers and bellows.
The green elf’s smithy.
Primul gestured to a wooden workbench. On it lay the most beautiful hammer Kern had ever seen. Iron and silver were folded together throughout the weapon in a marbled pattern. A ring of silver encircled each head. The haft was etched with fine elven runes. Kern didn’t even need to pick it up to know that the hammer was perfectly weighted and balanced.
“It’s beautiful,” he said reverently.
“Actually,” Primul countered, “it’s flawed. I was trying to forge a new alloy of hard steel and enchanted silver. But the two refused to mix. I can’t guarantee that, given a hard enough blow, the hammer won’t shatter. Still, if it’s magical foes you’re fighting, you’ll find no weapon with a more potent enchantment than this. It’s yours …”
Pool of Twilight Page 9
