Pool of Twilight

by James M. Ward

  Ren had been quiet through all of this, listening carefully. Now he spoke. “Well, Daile, what do you think?” he asked as he scratched his gray-shot beard.

  “About what?” she asked in puzzlement.

  “About going on another journey. I think Kern here could use a bit of help.” He grinned mischievously. “Unless, of course, you’d rather hurry home to repair the keep’s old stone walls.”

  Daile smiled happily. “Let the wind blow the leaves in,” she said. “Kern, if you want my company, you’ve got it.”

  “I would consider it an honor,” Kern said with a grin.

  Suddenly a thought struck him, his smile vanishing. “I just remembered something,” he said gloomily. “The prophecy said that five are to quest for the hammer. But if both you and Ren come with us, Daile, that will make six.”

  “Oh,” Daile said, her spirits sinking. She sighed. So much for quests, she thought.

  Kern gave Miltiades a troubled look.

  “I cannot resolve this for you, Kern,” the paladin said solemnly. “The prophecy speaks clearly. Only five can enter the red tower in search of Tyr’s hammer. However, I will say this. How I know I cannot say, but it seems right to me that both Daile and Ren should journey with us.”

  “It’s settled then,” Kern said firmly.

  Daile smiled excitedly. She had her quest after all.

  It was late when Listle sought out Evaine. The sorceress sat near the hearth, gazing into the crimson flames.

  “Evaine?”

  The sorceress looked up, then smiled warmly. “Listle. What is it?”

  Listle sat in the chair opposite Evaine, her silvery eyes earnest. “I need to ask you something.” She took a deep breath, steeling her resolve. “What do you think of Sirana? I … I don’t trust her.”

  There! She had said it. Maybe it marked her as little more than a jealous child. But Listle couldn’t help but wonder if Evaine had noticed anything strange about the wild mage.

  Evaine regarded Listle thoughtfully. The elf felt suddenly uncomfortable under the sorceress’s piercing gaze.

  “If you fear I’ll believe your suspicions are motivated by jealousy, Listle, do not worry,” Evaine said finally. “The wild mage is hiding something, of that I have no doubt. She is not all that she appears. You’ve sensed that, as have I.” Her green eyes sparkled sharply in the firelight. “But then, you understand such matters well, do you not, Listle Onopordum?”

  All color drained from Listle’s face. She stared at the sorceress. How could Evaine have possibly known?

  “Don’t be afraid, Listle,” Evaine said gently. “Your secret is safe with me. But a word of advice. The longer you keep a secret, the harder it is to reveal the truth. And in the end, the truth will be known. It’s inevitable. You would do well to remember that.”

  Listle nodded. She could find no words to reply. Evaine knew!

  “And keep an eye on Sirana,” Evaine added. “It’s up to you to make certain she tries nothing treacherous.”

  “I … I will,” Listle whispered. “Thank you, Evaine.” Trembling, she rose and hurried from the room, turning her back to hide the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

  A moment later a figure stepped from the shadows and into the firelight. Beaten steel gleamed dully. A faint coldness tinged the air, along with a dry, dusty scent.

  “She has a great deal to learn,” Miltiades said quietly, standing beside Evaine’s chair. His metal armor made no noise as he moved.

  “Give her a few years, Miltiades,” Evaine replied softly. “She hasn’t had much time to come to grips with her true nature.” She gazed up at the paladin. “Certainly not as much time as you and I have had to accept ours.”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “I know,” she said with a crooked smile.

  It was strange, Evaine thought. While she knew how formidable Miltiades could be in battle, somehow she had forgotten that his demeanor could be so gentle and gracious. It seemed a bit incongruous in a skeletal warrior of fearsome aspect, but Evaine knew it was the man he had been in life that was important, not his undead appearance. In fact, when she closed her eyes and listened to Miltiades speak, it was difficult to imagine him as anything but a living, breathing man.

  Yet it was a reverie that was shattered each time she gazed at the yellowed bones of his face.

  “You should go to sleep,” Miltiades said after a silence. “If Gamaliel discovers you are still awake, he’s liable to grab you by the scruff of your neck and haul you to bed like a kitten.”

  “You’re not kidding,” she said with a wry laugh. She sighed wearily. “But I can’t sleep tonight, Miltiades. I can’t stop thinking about the twilight pool and its guardian.” She remembered something. “Here, I want you to have this.” She pulled a small object from a pocket. It was an ornate brooch of gold, set with a single diamond-clear crystal. “I have a similar gem. These will allow us to keep in contact, no matter the distance that separates us.”

  Miltiades took the brooch. “I will not lose it.”

  “You’d better not!” Evaine said with mock severity. “These things aren’t a copper piece a dozen, you know.” Her face softened. “Be careful on your journey, old friend.” Slowly, she reached out a hand and touched the paladin’s gauntlet.

  She breathed in sharply, feeling sudden pain, and snatched her hand back. His gauntlet was cold! Terribly, terribly cold. It hurt just to brush it with her fingertips. She looked at the undead paladin.

  Strange, she thought, that his visage could seem so tragic even though it was devoid of flesh.

  “I am sorry, Evaine,” he said quietly.

  “No,” she said firmly, her eyes as hard as jade. “Don’t be sorry, Miltiades. Don’t ever be sorry. We are what we are.”

  The skeletal man said nothing in reply.

  10

  A Prophecy Fulfilled

  The denizens of the coffin walls rattled their bones in a mockery of laughter. Bits of broken teeth and tatters of mummified flesh rained down on Kern. The darkness of the nave hungrily swallowed the light of his holy shield. He shook his head against the dizzying stench and struggled to control the dream.

  Behold, Hammerseeker! I have a gift for you.

  Like moldering curtains of suffocating velvet, the darkness parted, revealing a sarcophagus fashioned of corpse-pale stone. A death mask was carved into the heavy lid, showing the likeness of a young man with blankly staring eyes. The face was Kern’s. With a sound like grinding bones, the lid of the sarcophagus slowly shifted to one side.

  Come, climb within, paladin of Tyr. You cannot refuse my gift.

  Kern steeled his will. Somehow, he had to turn the nightmare to his own advantage.

  “I … I was wrong to resist you,” he said dully, keeping his gaze blank. “The majesty of … of your darkness is too great.”

  At last, you have gained wisdom, youngling. The voice in the darkness spoke with satisfaction.

  “Never could I have slain you,” Kern went on in a fawning voice, preparing himself for a gamble. He took a deep breath. “Never could I have come close enough to strike at your one weakness.”

  Weakness? the voice shrieked. Kern shuddered under the brutal force of its outrage. I am as powerful as the darkness itself. I have no weakness!

  Kern bowed his head in a perfect semblance of trembling submission. “Of course, Great One! I was foolish to believe the tales I was told!”

  Laughter gushed out of the nave like putrid water. Pitiful youngling! Were you told that you could simply cut the thread that binds me to my web? How terribly easy it must have sounded! Ah, how cruel are those who spoke such lies to you. Something stirred in the darkness, something with spindly, ghost-white limbs. No magic you possess could ever sever me from the source of my power, youngling.

  Kern felt a surge of hope. He was certain that, in its pride, the creature had let slip an important secret. But what was it?

  Enough of this, Hammerseeker! The end has com
e, and you have lost.

  Suddenly, Kern’s hopes were transformed into terror. Tentacles of shadow snaked out of the sarcophagus, coiling tightly around him. He struggled in horror, but could not break free of their stranglehold.

  At last, triumph is mine!

  Kern screamed as the tentacles dragged him into the cold, confining interior of the sarcophagus, pinning his limbs in place. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  The coffin lid began to slide into place….

  This time Kern owed his life to Sirana.

  He woke up gasping, the wild mage bending over him. A strange, colorless mist enclosed him.

  “The hold the Hammerwarder has on your dreams grows stronger the closer we come to the red tower,” Sirana said grimly. “I was barely able to break the creature’s grip.” With a wave of her hand, she banished the dull shroud of magic that had protected him. It seemed to leave a thin, oily residue on his skin.

  For six days, the adventurers had been riding southward from Evaine’s dwelling, toward the ruins of the red tower near the southwestern edge of the Moonsea. Each night, Kern had been visited by a nightmare sent by the creature guarding the hammer. And each night had been worse than the one before.

  “Well, the warder won’t have another night to stalk my dreams,” Kern said hoarsely. “We’ll reach the tower today. Thank you for your help, Sirana.”

  “My pleasure,” the wild mage purred.

  Weakly, Kern sat up. His head pounded furiously, but this time the dream had yielded a valuable secret.

  “What are you grinning about?” Listle remarked as Kern sat down by the campfire. She was stirring a pot of oat porridge hanging on a tripod of green willow branches.

  “The Hammerwarder sent me another nightmare last night.”

  Ren and Daile stopped eating. Miltiades turned his empty gaze toward Kern.

  “And you’re happy about that?” the elf said incredulously. “Let me see that helmet of yours, Kern. It must be too tight. I think it’s squeezed your brain out your ears.”

  Kern glared at the elf. “You know, you could surprise me and let me finish for a change.”

  Ren spoke before the young paladin could start bickering with the elf. “Did something important happen in the dream, Kern?”

  Kern ran a hand through his bright red hair, frowning. “Maybe, Uncle Ren. The Hammerwarder said something that might be important. I need to think about it for a while to be sure.”

  The ranger nodded, standing up. “Then let’s be on our way.”

  The six adventurers rode southward across drab, snow-dusted plains. Several days ago, upon leaving Evaine’s dwelling, Sirana had summoned and tamed a pair of shaggy wild horses with a spell. Daile and Ren rode these now. The wild horses had proved excellent mounts.

  The ice-blue sky was clear. Yet despite the brilliant sunlight, the air was bitterly cool. Soon all were shivering—except for Miltiades, who seemed unaffected by the fierce cold.

  It was midday when they reached the ruins of the red tower.

  The riders crested a low rise, reining their mounts to a halt. Before them lay a bowl-shaped valley. In its center stood the jagged stump of the tower, made of dark rock the color of dried blood. It looked almost like a gigantic tombstone, Kern thought, marking the spot where a great evil had died. Most of the tower’s stones lay scattered about the valley, along with the crumbling remains of circular walls and the occasional remnants of a guard tower or outbuilding. A harsh wind blew through the vale.

  “I never thought I’d lay eyes on this forsaken place again,” Ren said softly.

  In silence, they rode down into the valley. Kern kept a hand on the enchanted warhammer at his side. He did his best to swallow the lump in his throat. The adventurers halted among the lichen-covered boulders at the edge of the ruins, dismounting and tethering the horses. From here they would go on foot.

  Listle pulled a handful of glittering dust from one of the myriad pouches hanging at her belt. “This will stick to anything magical in the ruins,” she explained. “It should help us avoid any traps. It’s a good idea to avoid anything that sparkles. Unless, of course, you happen to like surprises.”

  She tossed the shimmering dust up into the air. As the wind caused it to swirl, the dust seemed to multiply, as if each speck had split itself in two, and each of these had split as well. The cloud of dust rose high into the sky, expanding as it did until it covered the entire ruin. Then slowly it began to drift down like fine, sparkling snow. Listle gasped.

  “What is it?” Daile asked in concern.

  “The dust—it’s settling everywhere!” Listle exclaimed. “The entire ruin must be magic. But how can that be?” The elf sank onto a boulder, visibly shaken. The spell had drained far more of her strength than she had anticipated.

  Sirana gave Listle’s shoulder a patronizing squeeze. “Allow me, little sister.”

  I’m not your little sister! Listle thought angrily. However, she refrained from speaking, opting for a sullen glare instead.

  The wild mage spread her arms wide, her snowy robe and dark hair flowing in the wind. She intoned the arcane words of a spell. Tendrils of colorless, pulsating mist rose out of the ground to creep among the fallen stones. Like ethereal serpents, the coils of mist spread throughout the ruins. Then they faded.

  Sirana blinked in surprise. “The ruins are rebuilding themselves!” the wild mage exclaimed.

  “What?” Ren asked in surprise.

  A slight frown creased Sirana’s forehead. “You may have destroyed the pool of darkness, Ren o’ the Blade, but the wizard who built this tower commanded vast power. That power still infuses each of these rocks, as well as the very ground we stand upon. As we speak, slowly but surely, the tower seeks to restore itself, to rise into the sky once more and regain its former glory.”

  “Glory,” Miltiades repeated in his eerie voice. “An interesting choice of words, Sirana.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose ‘glory’ isn’t the right word, considering the great evil of the Red Wizard who built this tower. But even you, noble paladin, must admire the loyalty inherent in these stones, a loyalty that compels them to raise themselves anew long years after their master’s death.”

  Miltiades nodded silently, but he found her words curious. The wild mage was something of a mystery to him. Most living beings radiated strong auras that revealed their true natures to the paladin. But from Sirana he sensed … nothing. True, he could detect nothing evil about her—unlike these ruins, which seemed to ooze evil like foul ichor. However, he could not sense any goodness in the wild mage either.

  “So where do we start looking for the hammer, Kern?” Daile asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Down,” he said, gazing at the jagged, broken tower. “Down in the darkness below.”

  “Then we must start by locating the stairway,” Miltiades offered. “When the tower was whole, there was a vast, spiral staircase of red marble that led from a great hall down to the caverns beneath. That was where the pool of darkness lay, as well as the cavern where Phlan was imprisoned. It must lie somewhere in the heart of the ruins.”

  “If it hasn’t been buried in the rubble,” Kern added grimly.

  “I think this calls for a little scouting, don’t you, Daile?” Ren said.

  The archer nodded at her father. “When we rode into the valley, I caught sight of the remains of a guard tower on the far side of the ruins. I bet it would give us a good vantage.”

  Ren grinned proudly at his daughter.

  Miltiades pointed out a huge, headless statue that stood near the center of the ruins. Ren and Daile agreed to rendezvous with the others there in two hours’ time. The two rangers quickly disappeared among the boulders.

  Well, Kern thought, there’s no use in lingering. With a deep breath, he plunged into the ruins, Miltiades, Sirana, and Listle following.

  The valley was a brooding place. The air was stifling, and the ground was as hard and cracked as if it had been fired
in a furnace. Half-formed walls sketched vague, roofless rooms, and massive lintels marked doorways leading nowhere. Scabrous lichen covered the stones like a disease. Dusting everything was a fine, sparkling powder, the remnants of Listle’s spell.

  “You have talent, little sister,” Sirana said with a pretty smile. “It is no mean feat to cast a spell covering such a large area. Now you simply need to learn how to focus your energies. But I’m certain, once you gain a little experience, you’ll have no trouble.”

  Listle’s eyes were diamond-hard. “Why, thank you, Sirana,” she said frostily. She knew she shouldn’t let Sirana’s imperious manner get to her, but Kern was so insufferably polite to the wild mage, so deferential and gallant. Even now he nodded attentively as she walked beside him, talking softly about the gods knew what.

  Probably me, Listle thought glumly.

  “Are you well, Listle?” a dry voice inquired.

  She barely noticed the involuntary shiver that ran up her spine. She was still getting used to Miltiades—and the chill that perpetually hovered around him.

  “Do you trust her, Miltiades?” Listle asked quietly, gazing at the wild mage.

  The skeletal knight was silent for a time. “Trust is like a shield,” he said finally. “It has two surfaces, one facing inward and one facing outward. Without both, the shield cannot be.” Miltiades seemed to smile, even though his lips had turned to dust centuries ago. “But in answer to your question, Listle, I do not know whether to trust Sirana. But she has been helpful to our quest so far, and until she acts otherwise, I will regard her as an ally, if not a friend.”

  “Oh,” was all Listle said. His words did not ease her troubled heart, and both of them knew it.

  “Listle, take a look at this,” Kern said, interrupting the elf’s reverie. He and the wild mage had stopped in front of a doorway set into a high stone wall. The magic that was rebuilding the tower had accomplished much in this place. The wall was solid, curving to the right and left as far as Listle could see. A single rune was carved above the arched doorway.

  Listle stood on tiptoe to study the rune. “It’s not one I recognize, but I don’t think it’s a warning rune of any sort.”