Pool of Twilight Page 2

But something went awry. Before the holy relic could magically return to Tarl’s hand, as it always had before, the hammer was stolen by Bane. The dark god hid it where he thought none would ever find it. Before he was summoned back to the halls of Tyr, the undead paladin, Miltiades, made a prophecy. One day, he foretold, it would be the fate of Shal and Tarl’s newborn child to lead a quest for the lost hammer. Knowledge of this prophecy they had thus far kept from their beloved son.

  “By Tyr, I would go myself,” Tarl said through clenched teeth. “But how can I when … when …” His broad shoulders slumped in despair as he sank down to a chair covered in gryphon leather. He buried his face in his hands. “What have I become? I cannot even protect my son in his time of need.” His voice was anguished. “What good is a blind hero, Shal?”

  “Enough!” Shal said sharply. “Get all of that nonsense out of your system. Self-pity does not become you, cleric of Tyr.”

  A look of surprise crossed Tarl’s face. “You’re right, of course,” he said huskily. “I suppose I should be thankful I’m alive at all. So many of the temple’s clerics have perished these last years. I have no right to complain.”

  The last five years had been hard ones for the good clerics of Phlan. When the hammer was first stolen by Bane, few had realized how dire the consequences would truly be. The hammer had been the heart of the temple’s power, and, without the holy relic, the temple’s protective aura had gradually diminished. The warding spells woven about its walls were no longer reliable proof against the scourges of unholy magic sent by enemies of the God of Justice. The clerics of Tyr were dying, one by one. A year ago, Tarl himself had nearly succumbed. It was only a great strength, and an even greater faith in his god, that had preserved him. But he did not escape unscarred—he was struck blind. Tarl knew that it was only a matter of time before the temple’s defenses would fail altogether, and on that day all the clerics of Tyr would perish.

  Unless Tyr’s hammer was returned.

  “Never forget, husband,” Shal said softly, “you are the same man you always were. Nothing has changed that.”

  He found her face with his hands and kissed her soundly. “What good could I possibly have done in my life to deserve you, Shal?”

  “Oh, I can think of a thing or two,” she said with a devilish smile.

  Kern groaned as he dragged himself out of bed.

  “How do you ever expect to fight real monsters, Kern, if dream ones can knock the stuffing out of you so easily?”

  Kern shot Listle a withering glance. Between his mother’s healing ointment and a night’s dreamless rest, he was almost as good as new. Put the emphasis on almost, he thought with a wince as he shrugged on a tunic the color of mist. His chest was so sore he felt as if he had been hugged by an over-friendly owlbear.

  “By the way, your mother wants to see you.”

  “About what?” Kern asked. He grimaced as he pulled on his boots.

  The elf did a poor job of stifling a giggle. “How should I know?” she asked.

  “It’s funny,” Kern grumbled, “but I always thought elves were supposed to be stately, regal, polite beings.”

  “Well, thinking never was your strong point,” Listle retorted.

  With a glare, Kern brushed past her and headed for his mother’s chamber. As he trudged up the tower’s central staircase, he wondered why Shal wanted to see him. She didn’t usually invite him into her spellcasting chamber. In fact, her private laboratory was generally off-limits to everyone except Listle. She probably wanted to talk about his recurring nightmares, he thought.

  He had dreamed about the beast in the darkness a number of times before, and each time the dream had been a little clearer and lasted a little longer. He tried to recall the details of yesterday’s nightmare, but already it seemed foggy. He remembered a shadowed nave and a terrible creature. The beast had called him something. What was it? A title of some sort … Kern shook his head. The memory was too clouded.

  The young man had a feeling that his mother and father knew something about the nightmare that they weren’t telling him. They seemed ill at ease every time he told them he had dreamed the same dream. Were they trying to protect him from something?

  He sighed. It wasn’t easy being the only son of two of the city of Phlan’s greatest heroes. Once, with the help of Kern’s honorary Uncle Ren, Tarl and Shal had defeated an evil dragon that tyrannized half the city, which in those days was rife with monsters and ruins. And another time, they had helped to rescue Phlan from an evil Red Wizard named Marcus, who had stolen the city and sealed it in a cavern beneath his tower. Kern didn’t know how he could ever live up to the examples set by parents like that.

  “There you are,” Shal said as her son stepped into the circular chamber where she studied and practiced her magical skills. Once the chamber had been used by a powerful wizard named Denlor, a friend of Shal’s old master, but after his death Shal had taken it over. While Shal insisted that the rest of the tower be spotless, this room was always cluttered. Shelves lined the walls, sagging under their load of leather-bound books and rune-sealed jars. Countless tables were strewn with crisp rolls of parchment, bright purple quill pens, and crystal pots of invisible ink. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the rafters, lending the air a sweet, dusty scent.

  “Sit,” Shal said briskly. Kern did as ordered. His mother approached him with a clear crystal in hand, her violet robe whispering against the stone floor.

  “What is that?” Kern asked, eyeing the crystal warily. He was more than a little suspicious of his mother’s magic powers. He had seen her cast a spell and engulf entire bands of attacking orcs in searing flame. It was generally a good idea to avoid being on the receiving end of her incantations.

  “It’s a test. I want to find out why your father’s spell failed to heal you. Now stop squirming and hold still.”

  She spoke several strange words. Suddenly the crystal glowed with a crimson radiance. The scarlet glow reached out to envelop a heavy spellbook on a nearby table. The sorceress nodded in satisfaction.

  “Does it detect magic?” Kern asked tentatively.

  “That’s right,” Shal said. “Now it’s your turn.” She brought the crystal closer to Kern. The scarlet glow reached out for him, probing. But as soon as the radiance touched his chest, it abruptly vanished. The crystal went dark, disintegrating into a fine gray powder that trickled from Shal’s hand.

  She raised an eyebrow, gazing speculatively at her son.

  “What?” Kern asked defensively. “What is it?”

  “This is a problem,” Shal said. She took a troubled breath. “Oh, I’ve suspected it for some time now. Why do you think I always tell you to stay away from my chamber when I’m working on a spell?” She dusted the remnants of the crystal from her hands. “This confirms everything.”

  “Confirms what?” Kern asked in utter desperation.

  “You are unmagic, Kern.” Her face grew serious. “It’s my fault, of course. I cast a number of powerful spells while I was pregnant with you. I would have rather not cast them but was forced to in order to save your father, as well as the city of Phlan. Now it seems they have affected you, though I’m not yet sure if the effect is permanent, or even if it will be consistent from one day to the next.”

  Kern’s head was spinning. “Affected me in what way?”

  “Magic doesn’t work on you, Kern. Now, this might not actually be all bad. It means you’re immune to harmful spells. But it also means you’re immune to magical healing as well, like the spell your father tried to cast on you after your strange nightmare.”

  Kern groaned in dismay. “Isn’t there something you can do to fix things?”

  “Well, we can help you practice lowering your magical guard.” Shal smiled reassuringly at her son. “It won’t solve the problem, but it may help.”

  Before Kern could reply, Listle burst into the room. A flurry of silver sparks followed in her wake. Shal scowled at the elf’s flagrant use of her swiftness spell. />
  The elf grinned sheepishly. “I know I wasn’t supposed to cast another one,” Listle said excitedly, “but I thought this was too important to wait.”

  “What is it, Listle?” Kern asked.

  Her silvery eyes were positively glowing. “It’s the clerics at the temple,” she exclaimed. “They’ve solved Bane’s riddle!”

  Kern stared at the elf uncomprehendingly.

  She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Don’t you see, you ogre-brained oaf? They’ve discovered where the Hammer of Tyr is hidden!”

  2

  A Riddle Answered

  Weighted down by his heavy armor, Kern hurriedly descended the tower’s central staircase. As a paladin-aspirant, tradition required that he don full armor before visiting the temple of Tyr. That included a heavy shirt of chain mail, a breastplate of beaten steel, and greaves to match. Over this he wore the tabard of pure, unblemished white that marked him as a supplicant to the Order of Paladins. At his side hung the worn battlehammer he used for practice.

  He tried to adjust his heavy chain mail shirt, but no matter how much he jerked and twisted, the armor still seemed to pinch him under the arms. He found Tarl already waiting for him downstairs, Shal at his side. The two were in the middle of an intent conversation, which was broken off abruptly when Kern entered the room.

  Before he could wonder what they had been discussing, Tarl spoke exuberantly.

  “The temple’s sages have been trying to solve the riddle of the hammer for twenty-two years. Are you as curious as I am, Son, to learn if they have discovered an answer at last?”

  Kern nodded. “I’m ready, Father.”

  “And so am I,” a sparkling voice said behind Kern.

  He whirled just in time to see Listle step blithely through a wall of solid stone, the ruby pendant she always wore winking brightly.

  “Must you do that?” the young warrior asked with a frown.

  “Must I do what, Kern?” the elf replied innocently.

  Kern gritted his teeth, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a reply. Listle had the disconcerting habit of stepping through walls and other seemingly solid objects when one least expected it. Shal considered the elf’s ability to pass through solid matter a magical curiosity. Kern just considered it a nuisance. He stepped forward, opening the tower’s door.

  “Be careful,” Shal admonished them, her eyes grim. “Remember, Phlan isn’t the safe haven it used to be.”

  The three promised to be cautious and stepped outside.

  Denlor’s Tower stood on the north edge of Phlan, but the temple of Tyr was located in the central city, so they had a fair distance to walk. It was a chill, gray day. Autumn had arrived early, and winter also promised to be premature. Lately, when Kern looked out of his chamber’s window in the morning, he could see a thin white line of ice where the steely waters of the Moonsea met the beach.

  Kern firmly gripped Tarl’s elbow, guiding his blind father, while Listle bounded ahead with her typical ebullience. They turned onto a narrow street, and the comforting sight of Denlor’s Tower was lost from view. Shal had been right to caution them to take care, Kern thought to himself. Over the last several years, Phlan had undergone a steady decline. Everyone knew the mysterious malaise was due to the growing crisis of the lost relic. As surely as the clerics of Tyr were dying, so was Phlan, street by street and person by person.

  In Kern’s childhood memories, Phlan had been a city of broad, tree-lined avenues, neatly kept stone cottages, and broad cobbled squares centered around clear-water fountains. The Phlan of today was starkly different. Dark, sour-smelling water ran down the center of most streets, their cobblestones cracked and covered with refuse and slime. In places the cobbles were gone altogether, leaving gaping holes filled with foul-smelling muck churned up by the hooves of horses. The trees that arched over the avenues were dead, their brittle branches sagging down like skeletal fingers. Brick smokestacks belched forth black, sulfurous clouds that stained the sky above, turning its once bright azure to an angry iron gray. Now when it rained in Phlan, the rain was gritty and dark, the color of ashes.

  As they walked, Kern noted that the houses slumping to either side of the avenue were squalid and filthy. Hard-faced women dumped their dirty dishwater out of second-story windows, heedless of who might be walking below. Shifty-eyed men clad in mud-stained tunics congregated in the doorways of abandoned buildings, watching travelers pass, now and then baring yellowed teeth in smiles that were anything but neighborly. Kern did his best to steer clear.

  “Tell me truthfully, Kern,” Tarl said as the three of them walked. “How does the city look?”

  On his honor, Kern could not lie, though his heart was heavy. He knew how much the city meant to his father. “Worse,” the young warrior said sadly. “With all the soot and shadows, it looks more like twilight than midday.” He gave wide berth to a tattered pile of refuse lying in the gutter only to realize that it was a corpse, half-eaten by rats, with a rusted knife sticking out of its back. He muttered a quick prayer to Tyr as he hastened past, glad Tarl could not see the foul sight.

  A scream echoed in the distance, a man’s wordless cry of agony. Abruptly, it was cut short. Wicked laughter drifted down from open windows above, followed by the sound of men fighting. Coarse voices shouted curses so vile they made Kern’s ears turn red. None of this, however, seemed to bother Listle, who scampered cheerfully along.

  Tarl shook his head ruefully. “This is a dark time, Kern. I’m sorry you’ve had to grow to manhood during these last years. And I’m sorry that you have come to stay with us at such a black time in Phlan’s history, Listle Onopordum. Without the hammer, the temple of Tyr is losing its power. And without the temple, the city will lose its way.”

  A group of beggars shuffled by, swathed in rancid-smelling rags. Quickly Kern reached for the leather purse at his belt. He distributed what money he had, but there were more hands than coins. The beggars trudged on without a word of gratitude, their listless expressions unchanged. A putrid odor lingered in their wake, the scent of rot and death.

  “Why don’t the people of Phlan fight to win their city back?” Listle asked. The elf stepped nimbly over an oozing pile of garbage, shaking her head in disgust. “I thought the citizens of Phlan were supposed to be some of the greatest fighters in Faerun. They’ve been attacked by armies of evil countless times over the centuries—from goblins and orcs to trolls and giants—and never once has the city been defeated. Now it looks as if the Death Gates are going to collapse simply out of neglect. The next army of ogres won’t even have to bother breaking them down.”

  Kern shuddered at the thought.

  “We can’t blame the people of Phlan for being led astray, Listle,” Tarl said reprovingly. “It isn’t their fault. The influence of dark magic is everywhere now. I can feel it in my heart like a great black weight. Without the hammer, the clerics of Tyr no longer have the power to protect the people from evil or to banish the darkness from the city. But we should not despair. There are still a few folk in the city who seek the light and ask for the blessing of Tyr. Let us just hope that Patriarch Anton and the others have not solved Bane’s riddle too late. If the Hammer of Tyr can be found, the city might yet be saved.”

  Looking at the grim scene around him, Kern was not so sure. He kept his free hand on the frayed leather grip of his battlehammer as they pressed on.

  “By the way, Kern,” Tarl continued, “don’t let me forget to tell Patriarch Anton about this trait of yours, this unmagic as your mother calls it. I confess, I often wondered why I was never able to catch the slightest glimpse of you, even after placing that enchantment on your armor. Now it appears I have an explanation.”

  Despite his blindness, Tarl had the peculiar ability to “see” magic. It was a talent that had developed gradually over the last several years. At first, Tarl had only been able to detect a faint glow each time Shal cast a spell near him. Eventually, he began to see magical auras as glowing clouds of light. N
ow his talent had grown to the point where he could not only detect all sorts of magical energies, he could discern their true natures as well.

  So, Kern realized with a start, because of his magical resistance he would always remain invisible to his father. That saddened the young paladin. He gripped Tarl’s arm more tightly.

  A sly look touched the cleric’s face then. “Listle, of course, glows with such a brilliant silver color that I can hardly bear to look at her sometimes. Though the hue is exceedingly lovely, of course.”

  “Why thank you, Tarl,” Listle replied, positively beaming. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  The trio passed an unsavory-looking tavern, a place by the cheery name of The Bloated Corpse, if Kern read the peeling, weatherworn sign correctly. Raucous laughter drifted through the portal, along with the stench of cheap ale and blood.

  “Next time, dog, if you can’t pay with gold, you can pay with your ears instead!” a coarse voice bellowed from inside the place.

  Abruptly a small, scroungy man came flying out of the doorway, landing in a heap right at Kern’s feet. The young warrior nearly fell backward in an effort not to collide with him. Kern recovered his balance, then reached down to help the man, a mangy, cross-eyed fellow with a face like a rat’s, to his feet. He gazed at Kern with an expression of abject terror.

  “Are you all right?” Kern asked him.

  “By all the bloody gods of darkness, leave me be!” the scrawny man squealed. He squirmed from Kern’s grip and dashed away, disappearing down a side alley.

  Kern stared in shock. He had never before heard the gods of evil invoked in Phlan.

  “Pleasant fellow,” Listle noted dryly.

  Kern shook his head. “I was only trying to help.”

  “You can’t help him,” spoke a husky voice. Kern spun in surprise to see a barmaid leaning against the tavern’s doorway. “He sold himself to the gods of evil a long time ago,” the woman went on with a hoarse, throaty laugh. “Now he has nothing left to sell to pay off his gambling debts.” The barmaid might have been pretty once, but her weary face was smeared with dirt, and the grimy bodice of the ragged gray dress she wore had slipped disconcertingly low.