Pool of Radiance Read online

  The other clerics quickly raised their holy symbols against the zombies that followed. For each holy symbol, at least one zombie was turned to slime, but in their place followed even more zombies, along with some of the most frightful creatures of legend—wraiths, the ghostly mists that kill. Tarl could no longer quell his own terror. Shimmering clouds, gruesomely magnified images of giants, ogres, and other terrors closed in all around the clerics. By the dozens they came, from every corner of the graveyard. “Back, you spawn of evil!” shouted Brother Sontag, still wielding his holy symbol. “Press on, brothers! We must flee this place!”

  The Hammer of Tyr clenched tightly in his hand, Tarl plunged forward. The other clerics followed, holding their holy symbols high, but the wraiths were undaunted. Tarl heard a hideous scream behind him. He recognized the voice as Brother Seriff’s. The next scream was Brother Donal’s. More followed in rapid succession.

  Anton and Sontag ran on either side of Tarl, their shields held up at their sides. The ethereal hand of a wraith reached through Brother Sontag’s shield as though it were air and clawed at his face. Sontag didn’t have a chance to scream. Before he could finish his next step, he dropped to the ground, a withered husk. Tarl spun belatedly to the aid of the elder brother who had initiated him into the Brotherhood. Three wraiths floated over the body, their slime-green eyes bulging in the excitement of the kill.

  “Abominations! Get away from him!” Tarl screamed. The Hammer of Tyr burned hot in his hand, and he threw it with all the fury pent up inside him. The sacred weapon blazed a brilliant blue as it spun toward the misty visages. Tarl watched in awe as three wraiths exploded the moment the glowing hammer passed through their bodies. He realized at the same instant he saw the hammer’s power unleashed that he had just discarded the holy object he was sworn to protect. “No!” he shouted, furious at his own stupidity. But before he could do anything, the hammer was sailing end-over-end toward him. Somehow it had reversed directions like a boomerang and was headed back straight toward his waiting hand. Without conscious effort on his part, the handle pressed into Tarl’s palm as though someone had slapped it into place.

  Instantly the hammer blazed with an even greater radiance, bathing Anton, Tarl, and the three other remaining clerics in its holy aura. The skeletons and zombies were held at bay by the light. They shielded their faces with their bony arms. It was as if the eyes in their empty sockets were being blinded by the blue-white glare. The undead giants and ogres screamed in agony as they were touched by the light, and as one they turned and ran in fear. But the light from the mystical implement of Tyr didn’t stop the oncoming wraiths—or the creatures that followed.

  “Back the way we come!” Anton shouted. “Run as you’ve never run before!” Anton shoved Tarl in front of him and wasted no time following. The big man was as fleet as any as he leaped over graves and slammed skeletons, splashing holy water on the bodies of the dead as he ran. “Bless … ya, brothers!” he gasped.

  Tarl threw the Hammer of Tyr repeatedly as he ran. Wraiths exploded, and cries of the undead were everywhere. The other brothers continued to use their clerical powers—turning the undead with their holy symbols, throwing holy water, and muttering prayers to Tyr as they ran. Their powers were strong and undoubtedly would have been enough to save them under other circumstances, but the sheer numbers of undead made it impossible for the clerics to protect themselves completely. Tarl heard the screams of two more of his brothers, and then a third. Only Anton ran beside him now.

  “Give usss the hammer.” Tarl pulled up short, and so did Anton, as they faced a line of six ghostly creatures, their distorted, taloned hands outstretched. “Give ussss the hammer,” they said once more.

  Anton grimly assessed the situation. “They’re specters, lad, and a vampire leader.”

  Tarl was overwhelmed by revulsion, rage, and unadulterated terror. Left by himself, he felt he would die of fright, but the Hammer of Tyr became a living extension of Tarl’s innate strength. Blue beams erupted from the hammer, blasting the remaining wraiths into cool white bits of fog. As more beams followed, the six specters were driven back.

  “Well dooonnnne, lad!” A deep, evil-sounding voice echoed all around Tarl. Where the specters had stood only a moment ago, a handsome, white-robed man now floated in the air. His deep-red eyes shone, and his gaze seemed to burn into Tarl’s soul.

  “No, Tarl! Don’t meet his gaze!” shouted Anton. “Get back, ya wretched vampire, ya spawn from the Abyss! As Tyr is my god, leave us alone!”

  The robed figure seemed to flinch at Anton’s words, but then he stiffened and floated closer, smiling evilly. His deep voice echoed again throughout the graveyard. “Yooour puny god has no hooold over me!”

  “Blasphemer! My god will swallow your unholy flesh and vomit you back to the Pit where ya belong!” Anton held out his holy symbol and quickly recited prayers to Tyr for turning the undead.

  Tarl clutched his own holy symbol in one hand and the Hammer of Tyr in the other, but the creature’s glowing red eyes showed no fear. Even as the specters cowered back, the vampire floated closer. If it weren’t for the grisly fangs revealed when he smiled, the vampire would appear almost friendly. Tarl took a step forward, no longer afraid but drawn to the handsome figure.

  “No!” Anton shouted, and Tarl felt the man’s huge paw clamp down firmly on his shoulder. Anton jerked Tarl back behind him and hurriedly incanted another clerical spell. “Let the flames o’ Tyr strike ya dead!” he shouted at the creature, and he threw a handful of sulfur toward it.

  With a whoosh, a torrential column of blue flame shot down from the sky and bathed the robed figure in white-hot fire. It screamed in agony, and its robes disintegrated as it fell to the earth in flames. Naked, the vampire was revealed as a creature of nightmares. Its translucent skin was stretched taut over its bones. Its coloring remained a ghostly white, except where the flames had blasted patches of skin from the bones, leaving black, charred holes. There was no sign whatsoever of blood.

  Then the creature rose and threw back its head in a laugh that forced Tarl to imagine the unholy depths of the Abyss. It was a horrid, hollow sound that Tarl would never forget. “Deeeear brother,” the vampire growled, “yoooour spell was powerful, but yoooou wished the wroooong thing. Yoooou can’t strike dead what is already dead!” Once more the creature laughed.

  “Run, brother!” Anton whispered. “I’ll keep this abomination at bay till you can flee with the hammer!”

  Tarl wanted nothing more than to flee, but he wasn’t about to leave his only remaining brother in the faith. “I’m with you, Brother Anton, and so is Tyr and the power of the hammer!”

  “Then, by the gods, we’ll beat this bastard!” Anton swung his arm, shouted an arcane syllable, and released a blue symbol from his hand.

  Thwack! The blue character, the holy symbol of Tyr, rocketed through the air and embedded itself in the forehead of the vampire.

  “Aaaaghhh!” The creature dropped to its knees as the character sizzled and burned deep into its ghostly white skin. Still kneeling, the vampire lifted its head and cursed. “Noooow I trade yooooou word for word, doooog of Tyr!” The creature spit the word “Gnarlep!” at Anton. A black shape flew from its bloodless white lips and seared itself into Anton’s forehead.

  Tarl gasped as he saw Anton bellow in agony and clasp both hands to his forehead. The big man clawed at the black mark with all his strength, but the unholy symbol was already burning its way deep into his flesh. He let out another agonized bellow and dropped to the ground, flailing and writhing like a madman.

  “Stop it!” Tarl shrieked at the vampire. “Whatever you’re doing, stop! Leave him alone! What do I have to do before you’ll leave him alone?”

  “What dooo I want?” the vampire asked caustically. “A dooozennn hoooly mennnn enter my graveyard carrying that wretched hammer that wakes the undead and leaves noooone of my minions at peace, and you ask what I want?” The vampire fought to stand. “I want that blasphem
ous weapon—noooow—or yoooour friend diessss!” With a twist of his bony hand, the vampire threw Anton into even greater throes of pain.

  “Stop! Leave him alone!”

  “The hammer, oooor he diessss! Give me the hammer, and I’ll provide yoooou and him with safe transpoooort from this place.” The vampire raised his hand toward Anton and held it up threateningly.

  Tarl hurled the hammer directly at the creature, but the vampire flung itself to one side, and the hammer flew by harmlessly. The creature gestured madly, and before the hammer could return to Tarl’s hand, it was caught and held in red webbing that suddenly appeared in the air. The look of fear that had entered the vampire’s eyes a moment ago changed to a gleam of pleasure. “Thank yoooou, boooy,” the monster hissed.

  Tarl dropped down beside Anton. The big man was still writhing in pain. He spoke only one word that could be understood—“No!” Tarl could imagine what Anton intended to say: “No, Tarl! Don’t throw the hammer! Don’t listen to him!” But it was too late. Tarl had lost the Hammer of Tyr, and now he would surely die with his friend.

  “Now get away from me! Leave me be!” the vampire shrieked. There was no pleasure in its voice anymore, only pain. “Where will yoooou gooo? Tell me, and be gooone!”

  Tarl didn’t understand why the creature would give him and Anton leave, but he wasn’t waiting around to find out. “To Civilized Phlan. To the Temple of Tyr,” he replied quickly.

  Suddenly a huge puff of deep crimson smoke surrounded Tarl and Anton. For a moment, all Tarl could see was red. He could see neither the vampire nor Anton, nor indeed even his own hands. The roar of an unfathomable wind churned and swirled all around him, but he could feel nothing. It was as if his body were protected by layer upon layer of soft, impenetrable cloth.

  When the red cloud finally cleared, he was sitting beside Anton in front of a gate to what was obviously the new temple of Tyr.

  “Brothers!” Tarl cried from the gate. “Brothers of Tyr, help us!”

  Tarl could see men moving in the twilight. Two approached, carrying lanterns, and when they saw the condition of their two fellow brothers, they called for more help. It took four men to carry Anton to a bed within the confines of the temple. For hours they worked on his feverish body, hardly exchanging words with each other or with Tarl as they tried to ease the pain of their fallen brother. When finally they had done all they could, an elder of the order who resembled Brother Sontag rested his hand on Tarl’s shoulder and led him to a room crowded with tables. “Sit,” said the old man. “Talk, and I’ll get you some food. I can see from your eyes, and from the condition of your brother, that there must be much to tell.” The elder brother left and returned shortly with stew and bread and bitter ale, then sat down beside Tarl.

  Tarl ate absently. His body craved the food, but he had no energy to think about it. He had lost everything this day—ten of his brothers, the sacred object they had entrusted him with, and, he feared, Anton. After a night of spell-casting and laying on of hands and applying poultices, the brothers had succeeded only in easing Anton’s pain enough so that he could lie in some semblance of peace. But there was no spark in the man, no sign of understanding, and only a dim glimmer of recognition for Tarl when he was nearby. He had not spoken a word since they left the graveyard.

  Again the old man prompted Tarl to speak. Tarl reached out and clutched the brother’s hand. “Twelve men started this journey, brother …”

  “Tern. Brother Tern. And you are called …?”

  “Tarl … Those same men trained me and initiated me into the Brotherhood of Tyr….” Tarl quickly related the story of their journey from Vaasa and their first sight of the Stojanow River.

  “Here, we call it the Barren River,” Brother Tern interspersed. “No life can survive in its poison waters.”

  Tarl nodded and continued. He told of the skeletons and zombies and wraiths, and of the horrible, screaming deaths of his brothers. But he did not mention the graveyard, nor did he tell of the vampire. He referred to the ruins of Phlan and expressed his belief that the Hammer of Tyr, with its tremendous power for good, must have awakened and infuriated all the undead of the city simply by its proximity. What evil had left its mark on Anton’s forehead, he did not know. He vowed to find out.

  When he told the cleric that the Hammer of Tyr was missing somewhere in the ruins, he could see the older man’s pain. The clerics of Phlan had counted desperately on the hammer’s strength and power as they finished their temple and went out in numbers to face the very creatures Tarl was describing.

  Aloud, Tarl vowed to help the brothers of Phlan in their search for the missing hammer as soon as he could clear his mind through mourning and meditation. Silently, Tarl vowed that he would spend his days building his knowledge, skills, power, and experience until he could, himself, regain the sacred hammer from the vampire and exact vengeance for his friends. The lies to Brother Tern were so much bile in Tarl’s mouth, but he knew that the responsibility for the loss of the hammer was his, and he was determined to set things right by himself.

  The old cleric was sympathetic to Tarl’s plans. He believed he had convinced the young man to rest within the confines of the temple for at least a day and then seek out a private place, perhaps in the woodlands north of the city, to fulfill his need to pray and recuperate from the horrors he had witnessed.

  When Tarl was finished with his meal and Brother Tern had departed, he went to Anton. Every cleric in the temple had laid hands on Anton, accomplishing almost nothing, but Tarl could not help but try again himself. His hand reached out toward Anton’s forehead, but it recoiled when his fingers made contact with the gelid skin. Where the black word had buried itself in Anton’s flesh, the cold was so intense that it burned. Tarl forced himself to press his hands onto his brother’s forehead, then began to pray. He could feel the healing powers of Tyr strong within his hands, but he felt no exchange of damaged energy for whole as he usually did in healing. When there wasn’t even a glimmer of warmth or recognition from Anton after Tarl had spent several hours with him, Tarl rolled out his bedding on a cot and lay down beside his teacher and friend.

  The Night Begins

  There would be no peace tonight, Ren thought, eyeing the crowd in the tavern. The homey pub was filled with people—soldiers, thieves, adventurers, even a magic-user or two—most of them newcomers to Phlan, here no doubt in response to the town council’s offer of money and treasure for each uncivilized section of the city cleared of danger. Most of the strangers were ready to make voluntary expeditions in exchange for promised rewards, but recently the town council had even begun to send convicted criminals on expeditions outside the walls of Civilized Phlan, in lieu of jail terms. As Ren examined the crowd, he thought for the thousandth time how strange it was that they all looked so young—much too young to be facing the monsters that controlled the ruins of the old city.

  Ren never thought of himself as old, though he felt he’d aged a lifetime in the last year, but he wasn’t wet behind the ears like the roomful of youngsters around him. He’d stolen the best from the best. He’d killed monsters by the dozens, and men in even greater numbers. And he had loved—god, how he had loved! He knew that no one in the packed room could have experienced a love like his. He closed his eyes and thought of Tempest. Her hair was the flaming sienna red of bur oak leaves in autumn. She was a tall woman, with a striking full figure. She could move with the grace and silence of a cat or the provocative bawdiness of a street wench. When the two of them had prowled the streets and rooftops together, she had always worn black leathers. The thought of her, buxom and strong, working her way over the rooftops with ease, stopping to tease him with a glance or a motion of her hands, made Ren’s blood stir….

  “Have you fallen asleep standing up, man?” Sot’s angry voice bellowed from behind the bar. “There’s tables to clean and orders to take! Move yourself with some alacrity inside my pub, or you’ll be moving yourself even faster to the doorway.”

>   Ren shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered, and he began working the tables again. There was comfort in the mind-numbing dullness of the job. He could think—or not think—as he chose, and continue his work. He brought four flagons of ale to one table, five bowls of Sot’s renowned pork and cabbage soup to another, two glasses of wine to yet another. He mopped the floor where a pig of a youth had spilled a pitcher of gravy, and he cleared three tables so a band of young fighters could sit and slurp beer till they dropped.

  He’d been working for Sot for nearly three weeks now, the most recent of a baker’s dozen of odd jobs he’d held as he traveled aimlessly since leaving Waterdeep. It had been more than a year since he’d practiced thieving, the trade he’d taken up when he met Tempest, more than a year since the bastard assassins had killed her over some goods he and she had stolen from a member of the assassins’ guild. They hadn’t known when they lifted the gems and daggers that their mark was the head of the guild—not that they would have left him alone had they recognized him, but Ren knew now that if he had it to do over again, he would gladly have returned even the precious ioun stones and anything else in his possession to have kept Tempest from harm.

  He still awakened night after night with the vision of her standing there, screaming a silent scream as a dagger lodged deep in her left breast. The wound would probably have killed her anyhow, but the assassins had treated the knife with a madman’s poison that had left her body twitching and flopping on the floor of their bedroom until Ren was forced to put her out of her misery. Oh, he’d killed the three who murdered his beloved, killed them while they were still in his home, but they were mere hirelings for the head of the guild, who was the one really responsible for Tempest’s murder. He still had a price out on Ren’s head for the return of the daggers and ioun stones, which were still in his possession. But Ren didn’t care. The bastard would get the ioun stones from Ren when he fought him in the Abyss, but not before.