Pool of Radiance

9 Assassination Weather

All of Phlan and the entire Moonsea was awash in the tumult of a terrific thunderstorm. Lightning ripped through the sky in every direction, and deafening thunder reverberated for tens of miles. A person versed in weather and the natural pattern of things might have noticed that the lightning was almost perverse in its configuration, bolting upward and outward from one point and shattering the sky in an unnatural purple brilliance, but most people were undoubtedly more than content to huddle in their homes, hoping they were out of reach of what the next day they surely would refer to as “a demon storm.”

Not far from the heart of the storm, at the northeastern edge of the ruins of Phlan, stood Valjevo Castle, a structure that even in its present decrepit state dwarfed the ruins that abutted it. Awe-inspiring despite its fallen walls and toppled turrets, the castle must once have been one of the largest in the Realms. No doubt fantastic works of magic had been required to move the gargantuan slabs of marble and granite used in its construction. Those few who had seen the castle since the Dragon Run were amazed that the dragons had been able to raze even portions of its great walls, and in fact, much of the castle and the fortress around it was still intact.

Despite damage to parts of its structure, the castle stood several stories by any measurement and remained among the tallest buildings in the Realms. Its toppled turrets must once have reached one hundred feet or more. Now, almost that far beneath the castle, the great bronze dragon shifted in its resting place in the curve of the Pool of Radiance.

“Shall I have no peace?” The beast’s voice boomed and echoed against the golden walls of the cave. “The ground shudders with magic that is not my own, power that is not mine! What say you, Quarrel? Where are my ioun stones?”

A curious figure, lying prostrate before the dragon, lifted its head. Shimmering black hair parted to reveal the face of a half-orc woman. But for her piglike snout, she could have passed for human. Her eyes, mouth, and facial contours were flawless. Were it not for the blight at the center of her face, she might have been called attractive, even pretty. She stood to speak, flipping a charcoal-colored cape over her shoulders to reveal body-contouring chain mail and leathers that accentuated her lean, muscular, human form. Her voice was throaty. It had long ago lost its timbre, sounding now as if she had tossed back too many shots of hard liquor. “They’re not in Surd nor indeed in any part of Sembia. My assassin troops and I tortured and killed any who might have knowledge of the whereabouts of an ioun stone.”

“And you found nothing? Two weeks gone from these parts, and you brought back nothing?”

“I didn’t say that, master. I said I brought back no ioun stones. Blood ran freely for you and orc slaves carried it back to your temples.” The black-haired assassin gestured to a shimmering mound in front of the dragon. “Treasure such as few have dreamed of lies at your feet. And, as I said, you can rest assured that there are no ioun stones in any corner of Sembia.” She paused and let her cold, black eyes be mesmerized by the dragon’s blazing gold ones. “I am ready for my next assignment.”

The dragon switched its giant tail into the pool. “Yesssss …” It hissed warmly as energy channeled from blood spilled in a dozen temples surged through the golden water, charging the beast with its power. “So you are, Quarrel.” The dragon shifted once more, lowering itself deeper into the burbling waters. The great wyrm grunted its satisfaction as the water’s powers continued to invigorate its lifeblood. “Three wretched humans have destroyed one of my temples, in the process slaughtering most of an entire gnoll encampment. Still another part of my city has been taken over by human scum because of their cursed interference. They are the same three I spoke to you of before.”

Quarrel nodded, remembering her master’s fury after the party recovered Sokol Keep for Civilized Phlan. When she returned, she had expected to hear of the party’s demise at the hands of any of the thousands of creatures in the service of the Lord of the Ruins. Certainly none within range of his tremendous power had missed the message to kill the three on sight.

“Yes, they still live,” the dragon snarled, as if reading Quarrel’s mind. “Cowards faced them and died at their hands. Now I’m trusting you, Quarrel, to either convert them to our cause—my cause—or kill them like worms. Unlike most of the creatures I control, you can pass freely into the civilized part of the city….”

Quarrel clenched and unclenched her hand around the hilt of her favorite dagger. The Lord of the Ruins would never know how many had died because they harassed her or made some unflattering reference to her nose.

“You have all of my resources at your disposal,” the huge dragon went on. “With two more ioun stones, I will be able to complete the figure of power.” Slowly the giant creature reached up and put a taloned appendage on the hexagon that already held an ioun stone in four of its six corners. “When these two last holes are filled, I will be able to control elves, dwarves, even humans. But in the meantime, you must learn what motivates those three. Promise them anything, but get them working for me—or bring me their miserable flesh and blood, and let it fill my pool. If you succeed, your reward will be—”

Quarrel’s black eyes gleamed with a fresh intensity. “I already know the generosity of your rewards, master. And you also know the reward for which I work most anxiously.”

“Yes … Yes, Quarrel, I know.”

The moment she successfully completed the bidding of the Lord of the Ruins, Quarrel would receive the one thing murder and looting could never get her—a human nose, a small triangular-shaped nose that would not snuffle when she intended to be silent, that would not be an object of harassment and derision, that would not identify her as a half-breed … an object of contempt.

The great bronze dragon enjoyed the surging warmth of the energy-giving pool for a few more glorious minutes after Quarrel departed. The giant amphibious body of the dragon was an impressive one—strong, vital, and impervious to most attacks, an excellent choice for possession by Tyranthraxus, the Great Possessor.

For more than a millennium, the dark-minded entity of Tyranthraxus had dwelled on the material plane. For more than a thousand years, Tyranthraxus had been hampered by the nuisance of mortality, forced to control the weakest or the most corrupt mind he could find and then to function within the confines of that creature’s physical resources, however limited. He had at times been forced to possess even creatures as mean as lizards and squirrels just to survive. Inevitably he drove their pathetic, inhibiting bodies to the breaking point as he searched frantically for a new vessel to contain his essence. He had possessed humans by the score, men and women overrun by such overwhelming greed that their minds had lost the capacity to reject his usurping presence. He preferred humans because they made his record-keeping so much easier. Since humans were themselves gifted with a capacity for language, maintaining accounts of his subversion and conquests was easier for Tyranthraxus when he inhabited a human body.

But the dragon had been a good choice. Its mind had been subverted by a powerful wizard’s Mind Control spell at the time when Tyranthraxus had last been forced to leap to another host. The Great Possessor now found himself mental companion to a mind that, unlike most on this plain, had withstood centuries of life, a mind that had, over the years, acquired a tremendous capacity for magic. Tyranthraxus was, of course, obligated to keep pushing back the beast’s lawful good tendencies, and he was forced to cope with physical features that made writing difficult. But the ability to intimidate with a dragon’s body was a tremendous advantage. Then, too, the dragon had led him to the pool….

What Tyranthraxus could never hope to achieve in his own plane, where he was merely a minor entity among giants, was finally within his grasp here on this plane of weak mortal minds. He already controlled the actions of a legion of creatures within his telepathic reach. By corrupting the Pool of Radiance, a magical body of water that had been created by the goddess Selune to purify her followers before arcane rites, and expanding its powers with the enhancing forces of a perfect hexagon of ioun stones, Tyranthraxus had found the means of becoming the supreme ruling being of an entire plane.

Each drop of blood added to the pool gave Tyranthraxus new life energy. Each ioun stone added a measure of power to his own. For years he had researched the magical gemstones’ power, and he knew that the hexagon was the ultimate figure of control. With six stones, lined up perfectly, and his tremendous mental capacity, he would control the actions of every creature on this plane, and with the power of the pool, he would do it forever….

“ ‘By proclamation of the Honorable First Councilman of the City of Phlan, Porphorys Cadorna is hereby declared Second Councilman.’ ”

Cadorna bowed graciously before the First Councilman, members of the council, and the audience of onlookers assembled in the public chambers. An encampment of gnolls had been ousted from the uncivilized portion of the city, freeing up the old Cadorna property. Cadorna had immediately acted in the council’s name to employ the Black Watch, a band of exceptionally efficient mercenaries, to storm the adjacent library and slums and reclaim those properties for Civilized Phlan. At the same time, an unprecedented donation had been made to the Tyrian Temple in Cadorna’s name. Finally, a large number of coins had changed hands to ensure Cadorna’s ascension to the second most powerful position on the council. “Your honors, people of Phlan …” he began. “I thank you for entrusting me with this tremendous responsibility. I will, as before, work unrelentingly for the betterment and expansion of our fair city.”

Cadorna descended from the dais, shook all the proper hands, smiled all the right smiles, spoke all the proper words—then slipped away to his private chambers, where Gensor was waiting.

The councilman whisked past the mage and turned around to face him as he spoke. “You believe the three have kept something from me?”

“Whether or not it is some part of your treasure they hide, I cannot say.” The mage lowered his hood as he approached Cadorna and looked straight into the councilman’s eyes. “But the bigger man, the one called Ren, no longer radiated the magic he once did, and I saw him make contact with the woman when they were unloading their goods on the table. I saw nothing pass between them, but he is very smooth, and her magic is strong. They may well have made an exchange, or he may have passed something to her for safekeeping.”

“Scoundrels! Lying thieves! I’ll—What are you laughing at?”

The mage snorted and then laughed again, a wheezing, hissing snicker. “Surely, Councilman, you’ve heard of the turtle calling the tortoise hard-shelled?”

“Ingrate! There’ll be a day when you wish—”

“Wish what? That I’d treated you better? Councilman, you and I both know this relationship will end the day it doesn’t serve one of us. In the meantime, let me remind you that I did contract the Black Watch as you requested, and they have completed their first assignment.”

“Yes … the mercenaries did well with the recovery of the gnoll embattlement. But what of the second task?” Cadorna clenched and unclenched his hands, eager for the news that would confirm his ascension to the position of First Councilman.

Gensor grinned, his ashen lips pulling so thin they almost disappeared. “Everything is in place for them to take over as guards of the city. Per your instructions—” Gensor stopped when he saw a mix of fury and terror rise in Cadorna’s eyes. “Per my instructions,” Gensor corrected, “they have prepared an orcish arrow for the First Councilman. I saw it myself. Everyone will assume the murderer is an assassin from outside the walls. Your plan is a good one.”

Cadorna nodded his acknowledgment. “I thought so….” For a moment, his eyes gleamed in anticipation, and then they darkened. “But what of the treasure taken by those three? Can you recover it for me? Are you mage enough to acquire the stolen items from that hulking woman?”

“Brawn is not common to magic-users, I’ll admit, but don’t assume that our skill grows in proportion to our frailty. I wouldn’t choose to go one-on-one against her….”

“You mean you won’t do it?” Cadorna fairly snarled the words.

“I will. I’ll use my full resources to try to recover your treasure. I meant only that I wouldn’t go looking for it while she was in her room. And, remember, there may not be any more treasure. I didn’t actually see anything.”

Cadorna scowled, then snapped at the mage: “You’ll bring back anything that may be of use to me!”

“Of course.” Gensor pulled up his hood and turned toward the door.

“Go, then, but bring back word this evening. Understand?”

“I think so. Oh, before I forget … what of the Lord of the Ruins?” asked Gensor.

“What do you mean?”

“What have you done to satisfy his inquiries about the gnoll encampment? He must be furious.”

“As soon as I meet with his next messenger, I’ll explain that I was forced to take action but that I’ll see that those parts quickly fall back into his hands.”

“Interesting.” Gensor scrutinized Cadorna with a look. “Is that really your intent?”

“Is that really your affair, mage?”

“I suppose not. But I’ll know soon enough, in any event.” Gensor turned and slipped through the door. Cadorna just barely made out the mage’s parting words: “See you too soon.”

Slate-colored thunderheads billowed and churned in a circle directly over Shal’s head. Lightning bolts raged out in every direction above her. Shal extended her well-muscled arms skyward and flexed her taut fingers at precisely the right moment as she incanted yet another Weather Control spell. The bit of moistened earth she’d been holding vanished into the gray sky, and the bottom of the nearest thunderhead immediately became like so many bowls of gray dust, swirling first in one direction and then another.

The largest of the bowls swelled and bulged as if the cloud’s mists were fighting against themselves and the confines of the bowl. Moments later, a snake of curling, writhing vapor broke free from the thunderhead and spiraled down, bringing with it the dragon winds of a fierce tornado. In a triumphant gesture, Shal dispatched the descending cyclone out to sea, where it became a waterspout filled with fury, vacuuming the Moonsea’s waters into its hungry vortex and spewing them high into the air.

When the twister did not dissipate as she had intended but continued to rage across the bay, Shal beat the air with her fists and exhaled through clenched teeth. “Damn!” She watched in despair as the waterspout changed direction and surged back toward the docks of Phlan, which were lined with boats whose captains had chosen not to risk travel during such a violent storm. Shal spoke the words of a simple cantrip, one she had tried only on much smaller, less volatile subjects, and did her level best to push the tornado away. It held and came no closer, but she had to channel all her energies and repeat the cantrip three times to finally get it to turn back to sea. For several minutes, the twister darkened the waters of the bay. Finally it slowed, began to dissipate, and spewed its last. Shal slumped down on the rooftop of the inn, exhausted.

Her nose and mouth buried in her steepled hands, her windblown red hair spilling down her back and arms, she spoke quietly to Cerulean, who stood, shimmering a rich amethyst color, beside her. “I did it, Cerulean. I mastered the weather.”

You took a foolhardy risk, the familiar corrected her.

Shal lifted her head and rested her chin on her knuckles. “Perhaps. But it was a necessary step, a step I needed to take in order to see Ranthor’s death avenged and make myself worthy of his legacy.

“When Ranthor was alive,” she went on, “I merely toyed with magic. I failed to take advantage of the opportunity right in front of me.”

Agreed, but—

“You don’t need to agree with me.”

I was only trying to be, uh …

“Agreeable? Thanks, but I think I prefer you to be ornery.” Shal reached up and patted Cerulean on his flank, then gently stroked his fetlock, admiring the beauty of his color even as it faded. “I do prefer the purple,” she said absently, still flushed by her success with the difficult weather spells. She had taken a naturally overcast and blustery day and added rain, lightning, a little hail—and a tornado!

I don’t distinguish colors, Mistress, so the color of my aura makes no difference to me. But you’re changing the subject. What you did—casting spell after spell at the limits of your experience and expertise—was terribly dangerous. I simply don’t understand why you’ve suddenly become so obsessed with improving your skills so rapidly. Cerulean pawed the rooftop and turned quietly to let Shal stroke his opposite leg.

“I think you do, Cerulean. It’s more than wanting to do my best for Ranthor. As much as I admired him and want to do right by him, it’s myself I have to please now. I always thought of magic as a way of making a living, a pastime, a way to get by. It was never a profession for me, just an easy route to security. In fact, I hated to think about what it might do to my appearance if I performed too much magic. Long ago, I decided I’d use my limited skills for commercial purposes—to help someone move a little equipment around, to frighten lowlifes who didn’t pay their bills on time….”

I can see—

“No, wait, Cerulean. Let me finish. What I wanted to say is that I never took magic seriously. In Ranthor’s absence, I’ve realized, first of all, that I have talent, and second of all, that I enjoy the power magic gives me. And—and—” Shal paused, groping for words—“I don’t—I don’t hate this new body anymore. There are some real advantages to being strong. And I don’t feel so—so concerned about what magic may do to my looks. I know there is probably no reason to think this, but I feel … protected somehow from the effects of spell-casting. It’s as if my body is no longer susceptible to damage.”

“No longer susceptible to damage?” The voice came from behind Cerulean.

The big horse stamped and spun around to face the intruder.

Shal turned her head. Ren stood not more than ten feet from her, silhouetted against the brightening sky. He’d climbed the same creaky ladder Shal had climbed to reach the roof of the inn, and he had done it soundlessly. She shook her head, marveling. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“It gives me a chance to … see things,” said Ren, and he came closer, holding a hand out toward Shal.

She tipped her head and laughed lightly as she let him pull her to her feet. “To see what? An exhausted, half-baked magic-user and a purple horse?”

Ren pulled Shal up close and reached for her other hand. “A beautiful woman who I—”

The ladder creaked behind Ren. In a single motion, he dropped Shal’s hands, turned on his heels, and whisked Left from his boot.

Tarl’s head poked out over the rooftop. “Sot said I might find you he—” On seeing Ren’s stance and expression, Tarl glanced down at the ladder. “I’m sorry. I—”

“No. Tarl!” Shal pushed her way past Ren and extended her hand to Tarl. “Come up. Please.”

“Sorry about the knife. I didn’t mean to be so touchy.” Ren spoke in a hushed voice. “Ever since we got arrested coming back into the city, I’ve been a little jumpy. Even at the temple, getting my hand healed … I’ve had this feeling as if I’m not safe anywhere. I mean, it’s in my training to watch my back, and there’s always seemed to be a person or two around who has it in for me, but now I feel shadows everywhere. I don’t feel alone even after I’ve checked everything around me.”

Tarl sensed that he had interrupted something between Ren and Shal, but he was not about to be the one to bring it up. He climbed up onto the rooftop and spoke of a concern of his own. “I don’t share your eye or ear for movement, Ren, but I do know that I was followed here. The one who shadowed me didn’t try very hard to be subtle. In fact, she’s sitting downstairs in the common room right now.”

Shal and Ren looked at Tarl with intense curiosity.

“Who?” they asked in unison.

“A half-orc. She’d pass for human except for her nose. It’s as boarlike as they come. She carries an unusually small scimitar and several thief’s daggers, and she cloaks herself in a dark gray cape. I don’t know who she is or why she’s following me, but I’ve got the feeling she’s waiting for a chance to talk to me.”

“Cadorna,” said Shal firmly. “It’s not enough that he has his thugs accost us like criminals at the city gates. Now he has us followed, too.”

“You, too?” Ren asked.

“No, not that I’m aware of. But the two of you … and for what?”

Ren crouched down and spoke in a whisper. “The treasure? The part we kept?”

“Then let’s return it,” said Shal. “It’s just sitting on the nightstand in my room. We’ve no need of it. I wasn’t even sure why you wanted me to keep it in the first place.”

“Two reasons,” Ren responded. “I didn’t figure there was any way you could yank that armor out of your cloth without somebody noticing …” Ren spoke even more softly. “And I needed to get those ioun stones where they wouldn’t be found.”

“But since the stones are safe now, shouldn’t we do as Shal says and return the armor?”

Ren heaved a sigh and spoke resignedly. “If I thought Cadorna was to be trusted, I’d be the first to hand back the rest of his treasure. But he’s a rat of the first order, and I don’t want to meet the fellow he sends after me wearing that armor or wielding weapons that jewelry paid for.”

“You think he did it, don’t you?” Shal looked at Ren.

The big man arched one eyebrow, puzzled. “Did what?”

Tarl answered. “You think he killed Shal’s teacher—and that he’d kill us if he thought we knew.”

“Yeah, I think so. But I don’t know for sure. I do feel pretty certain that even if that half-gnoll was involved in it, it was work-for-hire. He at least had a sense of honor.”

Shal hissed her words. “My flesh creeps every time I get near the councilman, and my gut feeling is that he did it. But I’ve no proof, and I don’t know what his motive is. I’m prepared to test him by magic.”

Cerulean stamped and snorted as though sharing Shal’s anger and indignation.

“While coming from the temple, I heard that Cadorna has been made Second Councilman,” Tarl pointed out. “That means we need physical proof before we do anything rash. Cadorna has tremendous resources at his disposal now. I heard he even hired a mercenary militia to guard the city.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” agreed Ren. “We’ll need to work together—carefully. When we know the why, we’ll know if Cadorna is the murderer. For now, though, I’d settle for some supper.”

“What about the woman in the gray cloak?” asked Tarl.

“If she’s really following you, maybe we can learn why … or at least who sent her,” Ren answered.

“I’ll find out,” said Shal, a strange fury in her eyes.

A sprinkling of guests sat at tables in the inn, one here, two or three there. There was someone at almost every table but not a full table in the house. Those who were with others were speaking self-consciously, the way people do when a room gets too quiet for comfortable conversation. Shal and Ren and Tarl made their way to a large oval table that had just emptied near the bar. Neither Ren nor Shal had to ask where the half-orc woman was. She was seated at the center of the common room, and while no one appeared to be looking directly at her, she seemed to be the focus of attention, her shining black hair and dark complexion contrasting boldly with the light walls of the inn.

She did not look over at the three, and made no move to approach them while they ate. It was not until they had finished eating and were talking quietly that she approached their table. She didn’t wait for an invitation. As soon as she had made eye contact with all three, she sat down. She immediately leaned across the table and began speaking directly to Tarl in a treacherous, whiskey-hoarse voice. “I can make your brother well.”

Tarl sat silent, compelled to look into her black eyes.

“I can make him whole again.”

“How? What do you know about Anton? And who are you?” Tarl spoke coolly, showing no emotion.

“I am called Quarrel, and I’ve been sent as a messenger—” she hushed her voice to a whisper—“a messenger of the Lord of the Ruins.”

“The Lord of the Ruins?” Like the others, Shal had not expected to encounter an emmisary of the Lord of the Ruins inside Civilized Phlan.

Ren flashed a dagger in each hand. “Speak your piece and make it quick, orc-meat,” he hissed.

The look Quarrel returned would have sent needles of ice through a lesser man. “Hold your peace, thief! No fewer than five warriors gathered in this room are also in service to the Lord of the Ruins, and there isn’t a one who couldn’t slam a knife into your jugular before you could ever lay a hand on me.”

“You and two more would die before I fell.”

“Perhaps, but that’s not what I’m here for, nor is it what they’re here for,” she said gesturing around the room.

The woman spread her hands flat on the big table in a calming gesture, then spoke in a still-throaty but less biting voice. “I’m here to make a deal with you—a very good deal.”

“Speak,” said Shal, her staff now raised.

“I’ve already made one offer … I’ll see that the cleric’s friend is healed. I’ll also name your teacher’s murderer. I’ll even kill him for you, if you wish….”

Shal started for a moment, wondering if the woman had heard any part of their conversation on the rooftop.

“And for you, thief, I’ll get the name of the assassin who killed your red-haired lover. I’ll let you kill him yourself, of course.”

Ren fairly threw himself across the table and grabbed the orc-woman roughly by the collar. “Orc vermin! What do you know about my Tempest?”

“Unhand me, you bastard, or I’ll have that assassin kill you instead!” Six armed warriors had leaped from their tables and moved in closer.

Tarl pressed his hand firmly on Ren’s shoulder, and Ren loosed his hold. “I want to know what she thinks she can do for Brother Anton.”

“How do you know these things, and what’s the rest of your ‘deal,’ Quarrel?” Ren fairly spit the words.

She spoke slowly, facing each of the three in turn. “I know who your master’s murderer is, mage…. Cleric of Tyr, I know who can heal your friend…. And, yes, thief, I know who killed your lover. I know because I work for the one who controls all. Serve him, and each of you will be given the knowledge and the time to fulfill your quests.”

“He can heal Anton?” Tarl asked hesitantly.

Ren wheeled to face his friend. “She’ll see that he gets healed—in exchange for your soul! Think, Tarl!”

The woman’s voice was like honey again. “Your friend exaggerates, Tarl. Service to the Lord of the Ruins is hardly the exchange of one’s soul. The Lord of the Ruins is no god. He demands obedience, not worship. Look at me—I am a free woman.”

“You are a free pig!” said Ren.

“That’s enough!” Shal cried, standing to face Ren. “I’ve no more use for your bigotry than I do for her offer!” To Quarrel, she said, “I speak for the others. We’ve seen what obedience to the Lord of the Ruins means, and we want no part of your deal. Leave us!”

Fire blazed in Quarrel’s black eyes for a moment. “The Lord of the Ruins gets what he wants,” she said, “sooner or later.” The half-orc stood, pivoted on her heel, and began to walk calmly toward the exit. The warriors rose as if to follow, but just as soon as she had opened the big door, Quarrel spun around and launched a tiny dagger from her hand.

“Down!” Ren shouted, and he leaped to try to deflect the dagger, but a big warrior rammed him from behind and sent him sprawling across the table.

Before Shal could duck or react with a spell, the dagger was buried deep in her collarbone, and green death began to spread through her body. She stood for a moment, a silent mental cry shrieking through her numbness, and then she flopped, twitching and jerking, to the ground.

In a lightninglike move, Ren rolled and disemboweled the man who had rammed him from behind. Tarl reacted with equal speed, bludgeoning the two warriors closest to him before they could pull their swords from their scabbards. But it was Cerulean who reacted with the greatest ferocity. Before Shal’s silent cry was finished, he had burst forth from the cloth, trampling everything between his mistress and the assassin. The half-orc never stood a chance. The huge horse reared and stomped, reared and stomped, again and again, pulverizing her with his sharp hooves, smashing her piglike snout deep into her crushed face, so that not even the greatest mages of the Lord of the Ruins would stand a chance of fixing it.

But killing Quarrel did nothing for Shal, who continued to jerk and writhe from the spasms caused by the deadly green poison. Nor did it help Tarl with the last of the warriors, who had just sliced up under the cleric’s ribs with his sword. It was Sot who finally clubbed the man to death with the cudgel he kept hidden behind the bar.

Ren ran immediately to Shal and cradled her head and shoulders in his arms. “No! No! Not again!”

“The temple …” Tarl clutched his side and spoke in desperation. “Get us to the temple!” He tried to work some healing on himself, but he passed out before he could finish the incantation.

Sot stuffed a bar rag against Tarl’s wound and started shouting orders at the confused patrons still standing around in the inn. “What’re ya gawkin’ at? Get a wagon hitched up! Now! And, you, hand me a fresh cloth from behind the bar there! Move!”

Ren carved at Shal’s wound and sucked and spit the poison as fast as he was able to, but he could see the vein of green pushing its way toward her heart, and he wept openly as he carried her to the waiting cart, where Sot had already laid Tarl. Cerulean whinnied and whickered and stamped furiously, and none but Ren dared to hitch him to the cart, but the moment the harnesses were secure and Ren had clambered aboard, the great horse bolted away and galloped with a speed no other horse could match.

“Make way! Make way!” Ren shouted at the top of his lungs as they reached the temple gates. “Wounded aboard!”

The clerics at the gates hurried to lift the latch as priests in their studies flocked outside to see what the commotion was about. Cerulean charged through the gates and straight toward the central temple. He didn’t slow until he reached a circle of priests waiting at the temple stairs.

Ren spoke so rapidly that he jumbled his words, and it was only the clerics’ experience in dealing with distraught people that helped them to catch the words “poison” and “bleeding.” Two of the brothers held Ren as the others carried Tarl and Shal inside the temple.

“Our brothers will do everything they can for them. There is nothing more you can do, ranger. Go, find your peace where you can, and return in the morning.”

Ren stared at them numbly, tears still welling in his eyes. “You can’t let them die! If there’s anything I can do … anything at all … I’ll be … I’ll be at the Laughing Goblin Inn, or maybe … maybe at the park, the one by the wizard’s tower on that end of town.” Ren pointed absently and walked dejectedly toward the gates.

“Don’t forget your horse!” one of the clerics called.

But Ren only muttered, “No. It’s hers,” and walked on.

Ren didn’t remember passing anything between the temple and the park. He didn’t even have any idea how much time had passed. He had been at one place, some time ago, and now he was at another. The storm had cleared before Shal left the rooftop of the Laughing Goblin, but the sky was still cloudy, and it was now pitch dark, the kind of night when only rangers and elves saw well. Ren walked without hesitation through the annonwoods and into the center of the park, where a huge evergreen towered into the darkness.

He gathered pinecones till his hands could hold no more and laid them gently before the tree. Then he piled needles on top of those. Finally, he picked violets that had folded their flowers for the night and laid them atop the pile. He faced the tree and spoke softly. “I want desperately for my new friends to live, and I need somehow, Tempest, to finally accept your death…. You know there’s no one like you. Even Shal, as much as she looks like you, isn’t really like you at all. I’m not … I’m not going to look for your replacement anymore, Tempest. There isn’t one. But you’re going to have to forgive me if I go on now with my life.”

Ren clenched his teeth to hold back tears, then tossed the flowers and the needles and the pinecones, a handful at a time, around the tree. “What is it they say, Babe—‘from the earth to the earth’? You loved trees and the outdoors, like me, so this is my way of … of …” Ren’s voice cracked, and he stopped until he could speak again. Then he gazed skyward and continued. It seemed fitting that the nearly full moon had broken through the clouds and was shining down on the little park. “This is my way of leaving you where you’d like to be. Okay?”

There was nothing more to say, so Ren simply stood for a while, staring into the night. After several minutes, his melancholy was interrupted by an ear-piercing shriek.

Ren made his way stealthily to the edge of the park closest to the fortress wall. The sounds were coming from the opposite side of the wall. Ren launched his grappling hook high into the air. It caught, but when he tugged, it fell back to the ground. On his second try, the three-pronged hook held firm, and Ren hauled himself steadily to the top of the fortress wall.

Below, a lone warrior was lashing out furiously at an attacking troll. Two other warriors lay nearby, probably dead, the area around them a scrap heap of troll parts. From where he crouched atop the wall, Ren could see the hands, legs, even heads, and other miscellaneous bits of troll beginning to move together, regenerating.

Few creatures in the Realms were as hideous as trolls. Their bodies, even whole, were nightmarish—elongated parodies of giant, emaciated humans—and their faces were morbid caricatures from every child’s worst dreams, with long, wart-covered noses and black, seemingly empty eye sockets. Worse yet, their mutilated bodies refused to die. Even if a fighter were lucky enough to slice a troll to ribbons, its detached hand might claw at his leg and pull him to the ground, or the rolling, moss-covered head might bite and gnaw at his exposed flesh. Given enough time, the pieces would actually scuttle together and eventually form a whole new troll.

But it was the troll’s skin that bothered Ren most. He had seen trolls in daylight, and he knew that their skin was always decaying and rotting, even as the creatures lived—just so much slime, mold, and fungus troweled onto greenish, tarlike flesh. Relieved that the night’s filtered moonlight prevented him from seeing more clearly, he wasted no time dropping his rope over to the other side and swinging down to aid the valiant fighter.

He started by slopping oil from his fire flask on all the troll parts he could see. Flames shot up instantly as the magical fluid made contact with the arms, hands, and legs, and Ren was nearly overcome by the putrid smoke from the burning of wet flesh. Hunched over, fighting a cough that would not stop, Ren pivoted just in time to face the knees of the troll, which was now directing its attention to him. He thrust his short sword out between the troll’s knobby legs and pulled straight up with all the strength he could muster. He ripped through flesh he did not want to think about, then staggered back and fell to the ground, just out of immediate reach of the troll’s gargantuan hands. The nearly bisected creature bellowed with rage and lurched forward toward Ren.

It would have killed him on the spot were it not for the quick action of the warrior, still behind the troll, who swung a huge broadsword, low and level with the creature’s pelvis. Razor-sharp metal, powered by the strength born of terror, ripped through skin and bone, and the troll’s upper body flopped back onto the warrior’s extended arms. Four-fingered hands, tipped with vicious, aquiline claws, reached by instinct alone and began tearing into the fighter’s upper arms. Ren crab-crawled to avoid the amputated legs that were still stalking his way, and then rolled, stood, and dodged beyond them. He leaped forward and immediately began hacking at the creature’s upper body, which was clinging to the shoulders of the enraged warrior. The troll didn’t loosen its grip until Ren severed its arms from its hands, and even then Ren had to yank the clawing hands from the fighter’s shoulders. Again he threw oil, and again there was a terrible stench as the troll flesh burned and smoked.

The warrior collapsed, whether from the wounds or the smoke, Ren wasn’t sure. It wasn’t until Ren reached down to lift the prostrate form that he realized he knew the fighter. Her blonde hair was stuffed into a fighting helm, but he recognized the face as that of one of the women he had jested with just days before at the inn. Jen—what was it? Jensena? Yes, that was it. The other two fighters must be her two companions, he realized. As soon as he had moved Jensena away from the smoldering troll bits and patted the gouges on her shoulders with a blotting powder he carried, he checked the other two. They were both dead. He pulled their bodies up alongside the wall, along with their purses and light weapons. Guards could pick them up in the morning—if they were still intact.

Ren got a good hold on Jensena and started up the rope. While she didn’t rival Tempest, much less Shal, for size, Jensena was still a big woman, and all muscle. Lugging her to the top of the wall was no mean feat, and Ren felt unanticipated relief when she started to rouse as they descended the other side. At first she just coughed and made pathetic squeaking noises as the coughing jarred her wounds. As soon as they reached the ground, Ren held her tight to keep the coughs from racking her body so hard, and when she seemed ready, he offered her some water. Still leaning against him, she tipped her head back and let him pour the water into her open mouth.

When she’d had her fill, she turned her head away. “Salen? … Gwen?”

“I’m sorry,” said Ren softly. “Their bodies … are alongside the wall. In the morning—”

“Damn! Damn!”

Ren pulled the big woman closer and held her as she cried, gently at first, and then in hard, convulsive sobs. He said nothing. What was there to say when someone lost two friends? He surely didn’t know.

Together they made their way slowly to the Laughing Goblin, Ren supporting Jensena. After a quick word with Sot, the two of them helped the woman up to a room, where they eased her onto the bed. To break the tension in the room while he readied a basin of fresh hot water, a sponge, and several strips of clean gauze, Sot joked quietly about the ineptness of Ren’s replacement. Ren appreciated the older man’s thoughtfulness and the room he let him keep above the stable, but he said nothing just then. As soon as Sot left, Ren gently sponged Jensena’s face and hair and helped her remove her chain mail and armor.

In spite of his own numbness, Ren found himself unabashedly admiring Jensena’s impressive figure and musculature as he worked. Apart from wincing as the garments brushed her shoulders, the big blonde woman made no move to stop his efforts. The cloth of her blouse was matted against the bloody skin of her shoulders. When he used a dagger to tear the cloth around the wounds, he ripped the blouse almost down to her waist. Still she continued to watch him in silence. When he began cleaning the gashes in her shoulder, she finally spoke. “In the pouch, under my belt, you’ll find a healing potion.”

Ren let his gaze pass slowly from her shoulders to her beltline, and then he glanced up and met her eyes. Ren’s pulse speeded, and he could feel his face flush. Jensena nodded lightly, and Ren reached for the potion, pausing just long enough to let his fingertips brush her warm, smooth skin. He closed his eyes for a single moment before his hand closed around the small glass bottle.

It was an excellent healing potion. He used it sparingly, but it did the work of a cleric. She reached for Ren’s hands and squeezed them hard. “Thank you. When my pain is less …”

“I’d like that, Jensena … Good night.”

“We’ve slowed the poison, but we haven’t stopped it. I’m sorry. I know she’s a friend of yours.”

Tarl tried to sit up, but he sucked in his breath in pain when the newly mended flesh under his ribs pulled tight. “No! I can’t … I can’t lose her, too. Brother … Brother Tern, you’ve got to keep trying! Surely there’s some antidote for the assassin’s poison!”

“Tarl, we’ve done everything we know. Our clerical spells have done some good, or she’d be dead already. But the poison still burns through her. Her body still twitches like a fish on a hook, …” Brother Tern pointed across the chamber. Two clerics held Shal gently to keep her from harming herself further by involuntary movement. “I … I don’t believe she can last much longer.”

Tarl looked briefly at Shal and then turned away. “I’ll call on Tyr myself to heal her!” Tarl fought the pain that throbbed through his whole body as he tried to stand. “I’ll go to the meditation chamber, to the innermost sanctuary. There can be no reason for her to suffer, too!”

“Few so young dare to attempt to enter the inner sanctuary, but like any of us, Brother Tarl, you’re free to try. Cleanse yourself thoroughly first, though, and mind your attitude and your motives.”

“Thank you, Brother Tern. I shall.”

Tarl gratefully accepted his brother’s help as he bathed his healing body and changed into full battle garb. But when he stood at the door of the meditation chamber, he stood alone.

Tarl knew from his earliest catechisms the nature of the meditation chamber. He would enter the first of four concentric squares clean of body, the second clean of extraneous thoughts, the third with a focus of purpose, and the final one with a focus on his god. While technically open to any worshiper of Tyr, few who were not grounded in the faith through years of clerichood and service bothered to enter, since a spiritual barrier prevented most from passing beyond the first or second square.

Tarl raised his hammer to the entrance of the first square. It glowed blue, and he passed through the curtain into the chamber. The space between the outer square and the inner one was only four cubits, and the ceiling was low and confining. Tarl could feel his breath constrict. He wondered for a moment if he was doing the right thing, but he proceeded as he had been taught. His hammer and shield bared, Tarl walked the inner perimeter of the square, speaking the words of a mantra designed to cleanse the mind of miscellaneous thoughts. After twice around the square, his breathing eased, and he could feel his head clearing. Another time around and he could feel a healing warmth, greater than that from the hands of his brothers, spreading through his body, mending even the soreness brought on by his wound.

After four more times around the square, his hammer glowed blue again, and Tarl entered the second square. This square was of course, smaller, and the distance between the walls of the squares was the same, but the ceiling was easily half again as tall as that of the previous chamber, which gave the second chamber an illusion of a greater size. Once more Tarl felt his breath constrict, and he experienced an intense pressure on all parts of his body, as though the walls of the room were closing in and the air had nowhere to go. Tarl found it impossible to think about the concerns he had planned to bring into the sanctuary. He remembered the advice Brother Tern had offered as he helped him with his robes and armor: “When you can go no further, fight. Find physical balance, and the rest will come. Tyr is God of War and Justice. He seeks focus of purpose and balance.”

Tarl raised his shield and wielded his hammer, pushing and swinging, charging and parrying against imaginary foes that lined the narrow hallway. It was not until his body began to revel in the movement and Tarl found a familiar joy in the control of it that his focus returned. Unconsciously, almost as an afterthought to his physical action, he began to speak and respeak the concerns that plagued him: Shal, Anton, the Hammer of Tyr. Every time he brought his shield up or swung his hammer, it was for Shal, or Anton, or for the return of the hammer. His focus was so strong, he didn’t even think about the fact that he was now moving without pain.

Soon his hammer began to blaze a brilliant blue, and Tarl stopped, relaxed his shield and hammer, and passed through the curtain to the third square. The square of the inner sanctuary stood before him. It radiated an intense, bright blue.

Faith had never been difficult for Tarl. Tyrians practiced a hands-on kind of worship that made sense to him, and Tyr seemed infinitely believable. Pictures of him were always the same, a burly but gnarled, bearded old fellow with a hammer as big as his arm. The irony of references to his evenhandedness was that, from all accounts, he was missing one hand, and somehow that made him all the more approachable. Tarl’s strong faith had already been rewarded with exceptional healing powers for one so young.

Only now, when two people he valued, perhaps as much as his standing as a cleric, lay filled by evil, did Tarl ever question his god or his faith.

“My thoughts of Shal, Anton, and the Hammer of Tyr I give up to you, and thoughts of you, great Tyr, Grimjaws, the Even-Handed, God of War, God of Justice. I offer up my fate to your hammer and to the balances.” Tarl waited, continuing to meditate on his god.

Moments later, his hammer began to glow once more, and Tarl entered the innermost sanctuary. Each of the four walls and the vaulted ceiling were mirrors of highly polished silver. At the center of the small room was a cushioned kneeling stool with a small, covered platform before it. Tarl knelt and rested his hammer on the platform. He was surrounded by his own image—a warrior, armed and ready for battle, but completely submissive and vulnerable.

He stared at the hammer and continued to focus his thoughts on Tyr. The hammer began to radiate an even brighter light, and then it began to rise slowly from the platform as Tarl watched, his mind filled with the wisdom and thoughts of his god. The sensation was not like hearing spoken words, nor was it like the occasional shared thought between intimates. It was a flooding, a purging wave of guidance.

Tarl had no idea how long he’d been in the inner sanctuary. He had no memory of coming out. He knew only that he must find Ren immediately.

“Your daggers! We have to get them to Shal! Now!” Tarl hammered on the door and shouted to Ren again and again, but the big man was rummaging his way out of a deep sleep that had come from exhaustion, and he wasn’t comprehending what all the ruckus was about. In fact, Tarl was lucky he was pounding outside the door because Ren probably would have killed him on instinct as an intruder if he’d managed to get into the room. As it was, Ren launched both Right and Left at the closed door.

“Tyr and Tymora!” Tarl leaped back as the two dagger points pierced through to his side of the door. “Wake up, man, before you kill somebody!”

It was Ren’s own movement that finally woke him, and he slowly comprehended the source of the clamor. “Be right with you,” he muttered.

It took Tarl only a few minutes to explain that he needed to use one of the ioun stones to increase his clerical powers in an attempt to heal Shal, yet it seemed to Tarl more like hours, and longer still before they were finally back at the temple.

The clerics could not keep Shal on a cot or bed. Her body jerked with nightmares and spasms induced by the poison, so she lay on a thick cotton quilt, a soft cotton blanket that was constantly being replaced crumpled over the lower half of her body. Tarl sat on the cool stone floor beside Shal and pulled her twitching body up close to his own. He clenched a blue-black ioun stone in one hand and his hammer in the other. Tenderly he wrapped his arms tight around Shal, then began to pray as he had never prayed before. Blue light like that he had seen in the inner sanctuary blazed from the stone and the hammer. For a moment, Shal’s body jerked even more violently, and then a vile green vapor filtered up from the pores around Shal’s collarbone and dispersed into the clear morning air. Her body quieted immediately, and Shal went limp in Tarl’s arms.

“Shal? Shal!” Tarl pulled her even closer, praying to sense warmth and a firm heartbeat rather than clammy, cooling skin and silence. Suddenly strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer still, and he immersed himself in the passion of her grateful embrace.

“Glad to have you back, Shal,” said Ren, and he pulled her from Tarl for a hug of his own.