“Your spell did the trick, Sirana,” Kern said, his chest heaving. “Why did you wait so long to use it?”
“I had hoped not to have to use the amulet,” the wild mage replied. “It may have stopped the flood of ghouls, but it has also sealed off the only way out of this chamber.”
They saw to their battle wounds then. Most had escaped with only a few bruises, but the gash on Daile’s arm was more urgent. A wound caused by a ghoul’s filthy claws invariably festered, poisoning the blood. Eventually, the victim would die—and become a ghoul.
“Fear not, Daile,” Miltiades reassured the ranger. He knelt beside her, removing his gauntlets, and whispered a brief prayer to Tyr. A blue nimbus sprang to life about his skeletal hands. In moments the gouge on Daile’s arm closed and scabbed over. Miltiades nodded in satisfaction, replacing his gauntlets. “It is done.”
She sighed in relief. “Thanks, Miltiades.”
Kern gazed at his own hands wistfully. He wondered if there would ever be a paladin’s healing in their touch. He shrugged and put the thought out of his mind. They had more pressing matters to worry about.
“None of these walls are illusory,” Listle proclaimed in disgust after searching the throne room for the third time. “And I can’t find the slightest hint of any hidden doorways.”
“I thought elvenkind had particularly keen eyes in such matters,” Sirana murmured. The wild mage was examining a bruise on Kern’s arm where his armor had been dented.
“This is absurd!” Daile exclaimed in exasperation. “I can’t believe we’ve journeyed all this way and been through … through so much just to end up locked in a room full of moldering old junk.” She kicked a broken table out of her way. Feeling weary, she climbed the marble dais and plopped down into the massive onyx throne. It was so large that her feet swung freely in the air. Each of the throne’s arms ended in gnarled, fiendish claws. Daile gripped them tightly in frustration.
The right claw moved.
She sat up with a jolt, fearing the throne was enchanted. Then she realized that the stone claw was simply attached to the arm of the throne by a small, nearly invisible hinge. Curious, she lifted the claw.
A low grating sound rumbled through the chamber. Daile gave a small cry as the throne lurched beneath her. All watched in astonishment as the entire dais slid to one side, revealing a spiral staircase leading down into darkness.
“I knew that would happen,” Daile lied with a crooked grin.
The songlike trilling in Kern’s mind was strong. They were close to the hammer. Very close.
“I recognize this place.” Miltiades spoke softly as the five moved stealthily down the dim passageway. “We are near the cavern where Phlan was imprisoned by the Red Wizard years ago.”
The passageway bent sharply to the left. Suddenly the ceilings and walls dropped away. The group found themselves standing at the head of a flight of stairs, gazing out over a cavern bathed in a crimson glow.
“Tyr have mercy!” Kern whispered.
The vast cavern was filled with undead.
Corpses in every imaginable state of decay writhed below, as if performing some horrible mockery of a ballroom dance. So numerous were the refugees from the grave that Kern couldn’t even spot the floor. Withered mummies covered with parchment-dry skin, bloated zombies dragging slimy entrails, and skeletal beasts baring feral fangs dotted the throng. Loose skulls rolled around the floor, nipping at heels, while severed arms scuttled through the crowd, trying to attach themselves to other undead beings.
These were the denizens of the coffin-walls, Kern realized. He gripped his enchanted warhammer. “I want to thank you all for coming this far with me,” he said to the others, his green eyes solemn.
“You’re not thinking of going down there, Kern!” Listle said with a horrified expression. “I know you’ve had some dumb ideas before, but next to this, an ogre looks like a genius.”
Kern swallowed his misgivings. “I have to go ahead, Listle. It’s my destiny. But all of you can head back to the surface. There must be an exit other than through the throne room.”
“No, paladin.” Sirana laid a hand on his arm. “I made a promise to you. I intend to keep it.”
“I, too, will stay at your side, Kern,” Miltiades murmured in his sepulchral voice. “It was for this mission that Tyr raised me once again from the grave. It is my duty.”
Daile shot Listle a fey grin. “I don’t want to be the only one missing out on all the fun,” she told the elf.
Listle rolled her eyes in vexation. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but …” She sighed deeply. “Count me in, you ogre-brained oaf.”
“Thank you,” Kern said gruffly.
The five started down the stairwell.
The undead mob jabbered exultantly. Kern raised his warhammer as they descended. Suddenly he was no longer afraid of his destiny, no longer afraid of failure. All that mattered was that he try his best. As the animated corpses surged forward, Kern whispered a brief prayer to Tyr.
Suddenly the undead in the fore stumbled backward, shrieking in agony. A dozen of them crumbled into fine yellow dust.
“Kern, look at your shield!” Listle cried.
The plain shield of beaten steel that Miltiades had given him was now glowing with a holy light.
Miltiades laughed, a strange sound echoing inside his armor. “Yes, Kern, that’s it. Open yourself to Tyr’s power. You’ve taken the first step down the path toward being a paladin. The minions of evil will not dare stand before you.”
Miltiades’ own shield erupted in azure light, adding its strength to Kern’s. The triumphant cacophony of the undead quickly changed into shrieks of terror. They fought past each other to get away from the searing light. Those caught in its radiant beams burst apart into clouds of bone dust.
Shields before them, Kern and Miltiades cut a wide swath through the cavern, Listle, Daile, and Sirana following close behind. The undead howled in fury, but none dared to approach the holy ward surrounding Miltiades and Kern. Suddenly the vast archway of the nave loomed before the adventurers.
Well met, Hammerseeker, a vast and terrible intellect announced from the darkness. Have you come to bow to me before you face your doom?
“Show yourself,” Kern called out.
As you wish, the creature crooned wickedly.
The shadows swirled and parted. Something stepped into the light.
“An osyluth!” Sirana hissed. “A fiend from the Nine Hells, but like none I have ever seen.”
The others could not take their eyes from the creature that towered over them. Grub-white skin was pulled tautly over the osyluth’s bony, humanlike limbs. Pinprick eyes burned hotly in its skull-mask face. Behind the osyluth lashed a curved, many-jointed tail, ending in a barbed tip oozing a thick yellow fluid. In the half-light, Kern caught a glimpse of what looked like a fine silver chain attached to the creature’s abdomen, stretching back into the blackness of the nave.
Your doom is upon you, youngling. The osyluth spat venomously.
There was no time to react as the monstrous creature raised a spidery hand and hurled a sphere of shadow. The orb struck the adventurers, bursting into a thousand pieces of ebony. Kern blinked and saw that his armor was covered with a fine dusting of blue cobwebs; his unmagic had counteracted the osyluth’s spell.
But the others had not been so fortunate. Listle, Daile, Sirana, and Miltiades all stood perfectly motionless, frozen in midaction. They were not the only ones. The entire cavern had fallen into silence. The throng of undead was frozen as well. Kern was the only one moving in the deathly quiet cavern.
Except for the osyluth.
So, you dare to resist my magic, do you, youngling? The creature scuttled forward, raising a huge, cruelly tipped spear. That is of little moment to me. It will be all the more satisfying to eat your living flesh.
It thrust the spear downward. Kern barely had time to deflect the blow with a swing of his warhammer. The two weapons clashe
d in a spray of sparks. Hammerseeker and Hammerwarder circled each other. The osyluth lunged again, but Kern blocked the blow with his glowing shield.
You are skilled in battle, thief. The osyluth hissed.
“Why do you call me that?” Kern cried, swinging his warhammer.
The fiend scuttled out of the hammer’s reach. Because that is what you are. The osyluth’s mental message brimmed with loathing. You have come to steal that which is not rightfully yours.
“The hammer belongs to Tyr!” Kern shouted angrily, ducking the creature’s spear.
That is not true, youngling. Eons ago, Tyr stole the hammer from my master, Bane. It was Bane who forged it. The hammer does not belong to your accursed god.
“You lie!” Kern shouted. He swung his warhammer wildly, but the blow went wide.
No, youngling, I do not. You know in your heart that I speak the truth.
Kern shook his head dizzily. The osyluth was lying. It had to be lying.
Doubt flickered in Kern’s heart. At the same moment, the light emanating from his shield wavered, dimmed, then went out. With a cry of rage, Kern dropped the shield and gripped his hammer in both hands. “You lie, fiend!” he screamed. Fiercely, he swung his hammer at the osyluth.
But his footing was not secure. He slid across a scattering of platinum coins and tumbled to the floor, the hammer skittering away from his hands.
It was just like the nightmare.
Howling with laughter, the osyluth rushed forward. The creature raised its spear for a deathblow.
And now, Hammerseeker, you will seek no more.
Something thin and silver glimmered as the osyluth moved—the chain dangling from the fiend’s body. Only it wasn’t really a chain, Kern saw now, as the creature loomed over him. It was more like a thread, stretching back into the darkness. A realization struck him.
This, too, had been part of the nightmare!
In a heartbeat, Kern knew what he had to do. In desperation, he snaked out an arm, fingers stretching toward the hammer. Even as the osyluth thrust its spear downward, Kern pulled himself to his knees and swung the hammer at the silver thread.
There was a brilliant, sizzling flash. The osyluth screamed, dropping its spear. The enchanted hammer shattered in Kern’s grip, and shards of silver and steel flew in all directions. Kern was momentarily blinded, but when his vision cleared, his heart sank. The blow had not severed the osyluth’s silvery thread.
Kern could see now that the thread was attached to a huge web stretching across the back of the nave. The web must be the source of the osyluth’s power. That was the secret the creature had unwittingly revealed in the nightmare. Bound in the center of the web was a metallic, cross-shaped object, obscured by sticky threads. Kern had no doubt of what it was: the Hammer of Tyr.
The osyluth chortled evilly. This grows sweeter and sweeter, youngling. Its breath was fetid with the scent of death. It would be sweeter yet to crush you with the hammer you have so foolishly sought, would that I dared to wield it.
In its gloating, the osyluth did not realize its mistake.
It doesn’t dare to touch the hammer! Kern realized. If Bane truly forged the hammer, why would Bane’s servant fear to use it?
He knew the answer. The osyluth had lied. The hammer was Tyr’s.
The osyluth flicked its tail, bringing the barbed stinger close to Kern’s throat. Venom glistened on its tip.
A memory flickered through Kern’s mind….
For a split second, he was in Phlan once again, sitting with Tarl and Listle by the fire in Denlor’s Tower. His father was telling a story, a story about … the hammer.
“… and no matter how far I threw it, it always returned to my hand when I called it …”
At last, victory is mine! The osyluth shrieked.
Kern closed his eyes. He knew he had just one chance. Come to me! he called out in his mind. Come!
With a rending sound, the Hammer of Tyr wrenched itself from the center of the web. Shining brilliantly, it flew through the air, directly into Kern’s outstretched hand.
He didn’t hesitate. Even as the osyluth’s stinger descended, Kern hurled the hammer with all his might back toward the web. Awakened by the touch of one faithful to Tyr, the hammer burned with fury, striking the web that had imprisoned it moments before, burning it to ashes.
No! The osyluth screamed in terror. This cannot be! Holy blue fire snaked along the thread toward the osyluth, engulfing it. The creature writhed in agony.
Kern summoned the hammer back to his hand; it felt comfortable and right in his grip. “It’s time you joined your master, Bane,” Kern said between clenched teeth.
He swung the Hammer of Tyr. It struck the osyluth full in the chest. With a thunderclap, the fiend burst apart in a spray of bone splinters and shreds of dry, parchmentlike skin.
Kern’s nightmares had come to an end.
The sun sank into a sea of molten bronze clouds behind the jagged stump of the red tower.
Kern sat, exhausted, on a granite boulder, the others around him. The enchantment paralyzing them had vanished when the osyluth died, as had the dark magic animating the horde of undead that filled the cavern and the rest of the red tower. All had collapsed into dust when the web was destroyed.
Listle grinned at Kern. “You know, that wasn’t half bad. For an ogre-brained oaf, that is.”
“You do him a disservice, illusionist,” Sirana chided gently. She laughed, a sound like golden bells. “You are truly a hero, Kern. Do you think I could hold Tyr’s hammer?” Her dark eyes glowed. “I doubt I will ever be this close to so holy a relic again. It would mean a great deal to me.”
“Of course, Sirana,” Kern said. “I could never have gained the hammer without you.” He took the ornate weapon from his belt. In the fading sunlight, fine runes glowed on its flawless steel surface.
Suspicion flared in Listle’s heart. “Kern, don’t do it!” she shouted. Too late.
He held out the hammer.
Without hesitating, Sirana snatched it up with a triumphant expression. “At last, it is mine!” she cried exultantly.
Kern stared at her in astonishment.
Suddenly an expression of agony twisted Sirana’s face. She screamed in pain, dropping the hammer. “By all the blackest gods, it burns!”
Kern and the others watched in horror as Sirana’s lovely coppery skin began to bubble and smoke. Two stumps sprouted from her back, unfurling into vulturelike wings covered with oily black feathers. In moments the beautiful wild mage was gone. In her place stood a creature that was formed only vaguely like a woman. Her body and face were hideously misshapen. Dagger-shaped fangs curved down from her crooked maw, and sharp talons sprouted from her gnarled fingers. Her wings beat furiously, casting off a foul odor.
“A foul erinyes!” Miltiades spoke grimly, raising his sword.
“Oh, vile paladin, don’t you find my true form lovely?” the erinyes Sirana rasped in a croaking voice. “If not, you may blame it on my human father, the Red Wizard Marcus. Human and fiendish blood do not mix well, but I care nothing for beauty. I can don it like a cloak, or cast it aside when I need it no longer. It is power that matters to me!”
“Like the power of Tyr’s hammer,” Kern said, shaking his head in wonderment. He knelt to retrieve the relic from the ground where it had fallen.
The erinyes whirled on him. “Yes!” she hissed. “I will have it, you foolish little puppy. Just as I will have revenge upon you, and all of Phlan as well.” She turned her murderous gaze toward Miltiades. “You will pay for slaying my father. You all will pay!”
“But you have failed, Sirana,” Listle said, her voice hard.
“Think that if you wish, elf,” the erinyes snarled. “But I have a source of power which I have barely begun to tap. You will never defeat the magic of the pool of twilight! Never!” The half-fiend began to back away from the others. “Vengeance will be mine!”
“Don’t let her escape!” Daile cried. She raised h
er bow, but before she could loose an arrow, the erinyes gripped the bone amulet at her throat. In a puff of smoke, she vanished. Daile’s arrow passed through thin air.
Sirana was gone.
13
Vows of Vengeance
Patriarch Anton watched intently as Sister Sendara, augur of the Temple of Tyr, let the runestones slip through her fine-boned fingers. The timeworn pebbles, each carved with a holy symbol, tumbled onto a round silver plate. The wizened priestess peered at the stones, studying the pattern they made as they fell.
“What do you see in the temple’s future, Sister Sendara?” Anton asked softly. The two were alone in a small candlelit antechamber off the temple’s main hall.
“A moment, Anton,” Sendara scolded. “Fate cannot be rushed.”
Anton smiled at this gentle rebuke. Of all the clerics left in Phlan’s temple of Tyr, only Sendara was older than he was, and only she spoke to him in such a familiar manner. If sometimes she was not as respectful to the patriarch as custom dictated, Anton took no offense. After all, Sendara had been a full cleric of the faith when he could do little more than coo and slumber in his mother’s arms.
“These are ill-tidings,” she said finally in a cracked voice.
“What is it?” Anton glowered at the stones scattered across the silver platter. They meant nothing to his untrained eyes.
“A shadow approaches the temple of Tyr.” Sendara’s dark eyes were like bright chips of obsidian. “A foe who has attacked us once before gathers together even greater strength. Soon we will be awash in a sea of darkness.”
“Are you certain?”
The ancient priestess frowned at Anton, hands on the hips of her soft gray robe. “It’s not as if I’m making this up for dramatic effect, you know.”
Anton sighed deeply, placing his hands on her thin shoulders. “I know, Sendara. I know. It is difficult news to bear, that’s all.”
“As will be the dark days to come.” Sendara extricated herself from his grasp. “But there is more, Anton, and on this the runes speak clearly.” She gazed at the scattered stones again. “Phlan has suffered many foes and many battles in its history. But none have ever been so dire, or so important, as this. We must prevail in our coming trials, or all will be lost.”
Pool of Twilight Page 18
