Pools of Darkness

1

What started as a day of humid sunshine smelling of damp earth and the scent of things green and growing turned quickly into a day of severe, threatening weather. By noon, the brilliant blue sky was obscured by ominous, dense clouds. Black, boiling thunderheads followed, moving in with unnatural speed.

The citizens of Phlan had endured worse, and they took the storm in stride. Livestock was corralled, shutters bolted, and children were ordered to play indoors.

By suppertime, the countryside was drowning in torrential rains and hail. Intense winds blew clapboards off houses, tore branches off trees, and knocked over anything that wasn't securely fastened to the ground. Worst of all was the lightning that ripped through the sky and the thunder that shook buildings to their very foundations. Not even the oldest citizens could remember such a day. The druids who had predicted the sunny weather that morning were completely confused by the change in conditions. Nothing in their divinations had even hinted at bad weather.

As evening wore on, the storm's intensity grew. Lightning strikes set fire to a half-dozen homes, although the flames were drowned by the driving rains. Small trees were uprooted and tossed about like kindling.

Despite the late hour, few residents slept. Those who were safely home and not assigned to guard duty on the city's walls found it impossible to sleep amid the clamor of rain and thunder and the buffeting winds. Most whiled away the hours in front of fires. The only thing to do was to wait for the storm to blow itself out.

Even with a full contingent of guards on the walls and most of Phlan's citizens wide awake, few were aware of a strange, magical force creeping over the city. From far across the continent, an invisible, silvery energy was forming a misty ring outside Phlan's impenetrable stone walls. The energy gradually grew and melded into shimmering tentacles, burrowing under the walls and around fieldstone foundations. As the force swelled, it formed a magical network beneath every structure in Phlan, wrapping around cellars and encircling storage pits. The invisible stranglehold tightened under the city as the storm pounded from above.

In one of Phlan's most famous residences, a sorceress paced the floor. A purple nightdress swished about her legs as she moved from window to window in the dimly lit room. From the top floor in her tower, she could normally see the entire city, but tonight the driving rain obscured lights in homes only fifty yards away. Blasts of lightning were the only reassurance that the rest of Phlan hadn't blown into the Moonsea.

"Come to bed, Shal. The storm will blow over whether you're awake or not." The voice of the wizard's sleepy husband drifted from beneath warm blankets, tempting her weary body.

The sorceress gripped the window sill. Her fingertips whitened as her grasp grew tighter. Frustrated, she stalked across the room to flop down on the bed.

"I can't sleep! This storm has my brain all stirred up. I feel as if I have thunder and lightning rattling through my veins." Shal rolled onto her side to face her husband.

Tarl propped himself up on one elbow. "I think you and the rest of the wizards in town should arrange a place to meet during storms like this. Then you can climb the walls together. Or levitate. Or fly around the room. Or-"

Tarl's words were snuffed out by thunder. Shal jolted, then sighed. "Magical powers are a wonderful thing, but when one's body is a channel for energy, storms like this can be brutal. You're lucky that clerics don't have this problem." The sorceress rolled over and buried her head under the pillow.

Tarl clamped his eyes shut as a lightning bolt tore across the sky. Blinking from the glare, he lifted a corner of the pillow and spoke softly to his wife. "Can I make you some tea or warm some milk… hey! What's the matter?" He pushed away the pillow and gently pulled Shal close. Enormous tears rolled down her face, and her body shuddered. Tarl shifted to sit up, holding his wife and rocking gently.

The cleric pushed away Shal's red tresses and whispered in her ear. "You've been through worse storms before, my sweet. What's wrong this time?" He continued rocking as the wizard sobbed, then gasped for air.

"I don't know. I feel… strange." Tears still rolled down her flushed cheeks.

"Are you sick?" Tarl asked, worried. His hand moved to her forehead.

Shal shook her head. "It's true, I've been through plenty of storms, but this one feels… different. I can't explain it." She buried her face against Tarl's arm.

Her husband kissed her hair gently, but he was genuinely alarmed. Few things scared Shal. After all the adventures and monsters she and Tarl had faced together, they both had nerves of steel that matched their tall, athletic bodies.

"What can I do to help, Shal? Can I get you anything?" Tarl stopped rocking and helped his wife sit up.

The sorceress shook her head. Sniffling, she looked at Tarl. "I guess all I can do is wait." She leaned against his muscled shoulder.

A loud bang startled Shal, and she leaped off the bed. The balcony door had blown open in the wind and was now swinging wildly as rain sprayed into the room. She sprinted across the chamber and caught hold of the door. After slamming it shut, a louder crash echoed in the chamber. The wizard stamped her foot as she saw that all six panes of glass in the door had shattered. "By the gods," she shrieked. "You'd think after ten years, I would have learned to control this magical temper of mine." She tiptoed among the shards on the slippery stone floor, and Tarl cringed as he watched her walk around the broken glass. Water blew in through the open door, and the curtains whipped wildly.

Shal shouted to Tarl over the wind. "Stay there so you don't cut your feet. I'll fix this in a jiffy!" She ran to her spellbook and began flipping pages. The water that dripped from her fingers and hair evaporated on contact with the magical tome. "Mend, mend… here it is." She closed her eyes in concentration.

A second time, the wizard dashed across the room and stepped around the glass to stand near the door. The sorceress repeated the words of the spell, and as Tarl watched, a purple mist flowed from her fingers and surrounded the fragments of glass. The pieces rose from the floor to assemble themselves into their proper positions. The six windows were restored and completely sealed. Shal closed the door carefully, locked it, and leaned her back against the panes. She was soaked to the skin, her nightdress clinging to her.

"Great trick, don't you think?" Shal was capable of magic of tremendous power, but still took delight in using spellcasting to conquer mundane chores. And the incident had temporarily distracted her troubled mind.

Tarl clambered out of bed and reached for an enormous towel. The sight of her body outlined under the wet, purple fabric was too much for him. "I think I know a way we can use up some of your excess energy," he said, a gleam in his eye.

Shal smiled as she grabbed the towel and rubbed it through her hair. Stripping off her wet gown, she wrapped the towel around her firm body. With a simple spell, she warmed a bottle of red wine, then poured mugs for herself and Tarl.

Her husband sat on the bed, beckoning. Shal always enjoyed the sight of his white-blond hair brushing his tanned shoulders. Handing him a mug, she sipped some wine. The wizard's towel dropped to the floor as lightning and thunder continued their assault.

Up on Phlan's protective wall, even the most seasoned guards trembled as lightning seared the black sky. This was the worst possible kind of weather for guard duty. But everyone knew the importance of the night watch. Besides, midnight would bring replacements and the warriors could go home to warm fires and dry clothes.

"Yeeow!" shouted a young soldier as a lightning bolt struck the ground only thirty yards from him. The red stone wall didn't so much as shiver from the blast. Two old guards, seventy years if they were a day, snorted and snickered as they paced in the downpour. The novice guard's look of surprise turned sheepish as he turned away from the grizzled oldtimers.

An ancient hand clamped down on the youth's shoulder, startling him. Whirling around, he stared at the two weathered, wrinkled faces. The taller of the two men spoke.

"Lookee here, Ston. The boy's beard ain't even growed in yet! And the poor fella's stuck on the wall on a night like this. What's yer name, son?" The face squinted at the fledgling.

"Uh, Jarad, sir," the boy stammered.

Now the shorter man spoke. "Well, Jarad, me lad, this be my friend, Tulen. Call me Ston. A boy like you needs someone old and wise to show you the ropes. Well, yer lucky, cuz you got two someones like that right here."

Tulen finished his friend's thought. "Stick with us, lad. We're nearly as old as these stone walls and we've seen just about as much. Save yer neck, it will, if you follow our lead." The ancient guards chuckled and turned to lean on the wall, one on either side of Jarad. As the wind whipped their gray beards and water streamed down oilskin ponchos, Ston and Tulen took advantage of their captive audience to tell tales of legendary battles.

The crusty guards were in the middle of the story of how Phlan came to be guarded by rings of walls when two wizards approached. Ston and Tulen chortled as they saw that the mages floated a few inches off the puddled stone. Invisible magic ovals surrounded the men, keeping them absolutely dry.

"Lookee what we got here," laughed Ston. Even Jarad had relaxed enough to chuckle.

"You ought to try the rain, youngsters," Tulen mocked. "It might wash the stink of sulphur and brimstone off you." The warriors exploded into a fit of laughter.

The first mage, dressed in mustard-colored robes, turned to his companion with a worried look. "Tarsis, do I stink of brimstone?" His companion, wearing a rust-orange cloak, looked first at his friend, then at the howling warriors.

"Don't pay any attention to them, Charan," he snapped. "They wouldn't know what to do with half our powers. And they obviously don't understand magic."

A lightning bolt as large as had ever been seen struck the center of the city. The thunder that accompanied it knocked Jarad and Ston off their feet. Tulen and the wizards cowered from the blinding light and the blast.

Suddenly all was still. The rain and wind stopped. Lightning no longer streaked overhead. The eerie silence that enveloped the city frightened even the old guards. Both drew swords and peered into the darkness.

"I'm goin' for Rakmar and his catapult crew!" Ston hissed. "Tulen, put these wizards to some use! Sound the alarm! And let's get some light on whatever's out there!" The stodgy warrior waddled down the wall with remarkable speed.

Tulen popped open a covered niche in the stone wall and reached for a crossbow and a pail stuffed with bolts. The missiles were enchanted with magical light that would break the inky blackness. Handing Jarad a crossbow, he ordered the youth to start firing. "Shoot high and long. Yer not trying to hit anything. We gotta get some lights out on the plains so's we can see what's comin'." Tulen himself started firing bolts as rapidly as he could load them. All along the wall, other warriors did the same, and soon the field beyond the walls was peppered with circles of bright light. Nothing seemed to be moving out in the darkness. Not a drop of rain fell from the sky.

"I don't get it," Jarad complained. "The rain stopped, so you're sounding the alarm?"

The old warrior answered without disrupting his loading and firing rhythm. "I'll explain later. Stick with me, kid. We're in for something ugly."

In the unnatural silence, the sound of boots on the wet stone announced Ston's return. Throwing off his poncho, he reached for a crossbow and started firing onto the field. "The word is out. The militia's up in full force."

Tulen sighed in relief and fired the last bolt from the bucket. The men hauled out three pails of normal bolts, loaded their weapons, and peered over the wall, waiting.

In the wizard's tower, husband and wife lay wrapped in warm blankets and each other. Tarl could feel Shal's pounding pulse, but she was calmer than before.

"Tarl, we've seen a lot of adventure in our lives, but are you ever unhappy that we never had children?"

The cleric was taken aback. This subject had a way of popping up when he was least prepared. He tried to soothe Shal although he wasn't sure of his own feelings. "If the gods want us to have children, we'll have children."

"But we-"

"Shhh. Don't think about it right now. You need to relax and try to sleep." Shal opened her mouth, but Tarl pressed a finger to her lips. The wizard gave up and settled into his arms.

The tower suddenly shook as a colossal lightning bolt struck the center of Phlan. "Did you feel that?" Tarl asked. "Really, my love-"

"Shut up, Tarl! Let me out of bed!" Shal whipped back the blankets, jumped to her feet, and paced over to a wardrobe. "Oh gods, something horrible has happened. I just know it. Tarl, get dressed. We have to go outside." The sorceress was already tugging a robe over her head. The cleric blinked at her, confused.

"Shal, it's all right. It's only the storm."

"It's not the storm! Something dire has happened. I can sense it. Please, please put some clothes on. We have to go out. Hurry!"

Tarl shambled over to his wife, whose eyes were filling with tears. "It's alright, sweetheart. I believe you. We'll go out." He yanked on breeches and a tunic and pulled on a pair of boots. Reaching for a heavy warhammer, he took his wife's hand and led the way down the stairs.

"Listen," she said ominously. "The rain stopped."

Phlan's walls were a flurry of motion. Troops moved through drills they had practiced dozens of times. All around the city walls, the fields and grasslands were dotted with magical lights that would betray the approach of any enemy. Tar-covered logs stood ready to be lighted and dropped on foot soldiers who might attempt to climb the wall. Baskets of sharp caltrops were scattered onto the ground, waiting to pierce the feet of advancing troops. Catapult teams loaded and cranked down enormous buckets of rock without waiting to catch first sight of the enemy.

"Hssst. Ston! See anything?" Tulen's voice was a gravelly whisper.

"Nothin'. That's what scares me."

"Uh… gentlemen," Jarad stammered. "Where did the moon go?"

"What?"

"The moon. It's gone. It was hard to see anyway-what with the storm and all-but the clouds have broken and, uh, it's completely gone."

"He's right, Tulen. Look up. No moon. No clouds. Whooo, I've got a baaaaad feeling about this."

"Steady yerselves, men. Yer as nervous as bridegrooms. We're tougher than anything that's out there."

"Ha!" Ston spat. "Sorcery! I know it is. I can feel it. Give me critters to fight, and I'm happy. Orcs, skeletons, even a dragon or two-I'll battle 'em-but keep that magic stuff away. It's too creepy. Why, I remember-"

"Shush!" Tulen ordered. "Listen!"

As the men squinted over the wall, hundreds of soldiers materialized within the circle of lights. The soldiers did not ride out of the darkness; instead, they sprang up as if growing from the grass itself.

"I knew it! I told you! Sorcery!" Ston gurgled.

"Shut up and start firing!" Tulen punched his friend. "We've been in worse!" Already, two bolts had whooshed out of Tulen's crossbow.

Farther down the wall stood the city's largest gates. Named the Death Gates by Phlan's citizens in honor of the thousands of monsters and mercenaries who had died there over the years, they were usually the hub of any battle.

As enemy warriors swarmed toward the walls, they were greeted by barrels of hot oil pouring down from above. As the liquid spread, wizards flew high out of reach of the attackers, casting spells to ignite the oil. Blazes flared; grass, walls, and soldiers were caught in the flames. The enemy troops were driven back by the intense heat.

The volley of crossbow fire never ceased. As more attackers arrived, more and more of the enemy fell to the expert aim of Phlan's crossbowmen.

When the flames along the wall died, the enemy renewed its press. The city's heavy artillery teams ignited the tar-coated logs and dropped them over the wall. Dozens of enemies were crushed and burned, and dozens more were turned back.

Far from the field of battle, far from danger, the wizard who commanded the enemy forces watched the assault. He was gleeful-an odd thing since his troops were dying in great numbers and his forces had not yet struck a telling blow. The denizens of Phlan did not suspect the worst: the wizard's magic had stolen the entire city and dropped it into a cavern deep below his tower. Bane would be pleased. The wizard would gain more power than he ever dreamed possible.

It only remained to conquer Phlan's citizens and strip away their souls using the pool of darkness. He assumed those tasks were to be the easiest parts of his plot.

His troops were formidable. Humans were shoulder to shoulder with pig-faced orcs. Scaly lizard men fought alongside bug-eyed goblins and hobgoblins. Every soldier was tough and battle-hardened. They had the proper respect for their leader, a Red Wizard from the faraway land of Thay. The troops had been offered an enormous amount of gold for an easy mission. In addition to their payment, they would be allowed any loot they could carry away.

The wizard pounded a fist. "Where are my fiends?"

Instantly a black mist formed next to the angry sorcerer. Within moments, it writhed and coalesced into a twelve-foot-tall ebony horror, whose rumbling voice startled the wizard. "Your bidding, Lord Marcus?"

The Red Wizard glared at his servant. "We're looking bad out there!" he hissed. "Summon your minions and get busy! Those weaklings can't stand up to the power of a pit fiend and his hellish followers. Your unit alone should scare them into surrender! Now go!" Marcus pounded his fist again. His face flushed crimson to match his robes.

The winged monstrosity nodded at its master. It flexed its banded muscles and stretched its arms and feet, revealing sharp talons larger than a man's hand. Green ooze dripped from two tusks protruding from the beast's mouth. As the liquid splashed to the ground, wisps of smoke arose from the blackened earth. Although the creature resembled a gargoyle, anyone could see that its power was a hundredfold greater. The monster's crusty skin creaked and scraped as it called out for its minions. Black sparks leaped from its body.

One by one, other black forms from the bowels of the Nine Hells arrived. Foul clouds of mist formed around the pit fiend, swirling into solid forms. Dwarfed by their master, the three-foot-tall beasts were nonetheless horrifying to behold. Vaguely human in shape, each had spiky wings and a tail. The monsters hopped about on sharply taloned feet as a smell like charred flesh filled the air. Each of the twelve creatures carried a sharpened black trident. The mob slobbered and hissed in anticipation of the impending onslaught.

The Red Wizard's rage turned to a gloat. "Spinagons! What fine creatures! These beasts will terrify the puny mortals! Now go! My prize will be the souls of Phlan, and I do not intend to wait!" Marcus's eyes blazed, and he waved a hand at the hideous assembly. The pit fiend flapped its wings and lifted off the ground, its minions following closely.

The defenders of Phlan were turning back their attackers with ease. Bodies piled up outside the walls, while less than a dozen city guards had been pronounced dead by the priests. Many of Phlan's wounded were healed by clerics and soon returned to their posts. Those who were seriously injured were carried to churches that stood ready to serve as infirmaries.

Catapult teams tirelessly fired and reloaded their weapons. Archers delivered a constant stream of arrows into the charging enemies. Wizards arrived from all over the city and hovered high above the battle, casting spells of fire, lightning, ice, and magical energy. The hobgoblin troops in the enemy forces broke ranks and fled the field.

At the Death Gates, cries of triumph rose over the clash of battle and carried down the walls.

"Tarl's come!"

"Master Tarl is here to help save the city!"

"Tarl is fighting at the Death Gates!"

The cleric blushed at the accolades and turned to his wife. "By the gods, when you're right, you're right! We've got trouble! Go find yourself a good spot and rain purple death on whatever's out there!" He reached up to kiss Shal's cheek. His wife magically elevated to join the other wizards high above.

Heading toward the stairs leading to the top of the wall, Tarl paused. "Blast it. Brother Anton took the Holy Warhammer of Tyr to the Ceremony of Spring, and I sure could use it now. But this one will have to do." Gripping his hammer, he charged up the stairs. Nearing the top, a glowing blue warhammer appeared in his hand, replacing the one that had been there only moments before. "What? I'm the only one who can summon this weapon, but I didn't call for it yet. At least, I don't think I called for it." Looking at the familiar weapon, Tarl shrugged. "Well, you're here now! Let's make Tyr proud!" The cleric of the god of justice dove into the fray.

The clash and fury of battle was so great that most defenders didn't notice a faint glowing mist forming high above the city. The wizards were the first to see it. Half a dozen spells were cast at it to discern its nature.

The mist appeared to have no other purpose than to provide light. As the cloud grew, its intensity increased until the city was lit as brightly as if it were midafternoon. Puzzling as that was, the spellcasters continued to shower spells down on the attackers. Then one of the sorcerers far out over the field shouted a cry of alarm.

In the distance, thirteen black spots appeared high in the air. As they closed in, flapping wings could be detected. A new cry arose from many of the wizards. "Fiends! There are fiends heading this way!" The sorcerers flew toward each other and arrayed themselves into a gigantic sphere, each facing outward. In this formation, they could attack the beasts from any angle of approach.

Facing the front of the battle, Shal aimed four purple lightning bolts toward the attack force. The wizards around her continued to rain their own magic onto the enemy. In Phlan, it was common for wizards to adopt a particular hue to use as a magical signature, so streaks of blue, yellow, orange, pink, and red streamed from the assembled mages in a beautiful but deadly display.

Below, on the city's wall, Ston hollered at his friend.

"Lookee, Tulen! Purple magic! Lady Shal has arrived, and she's blastin' those critters!" The ancient warrior fairly hopped with excitement.

"I thought you hated sorcery, you old goat!" Tulen chided.

"Fool! Of course I hate it, but not when it's on our side!" Ston chortled and fired his crossbow.

"Lookee what else we got, Ston! Big trouble overhead!" The grizzled warrior pointed to the swarm of spinagons and their massive leader. "Time for some fancy shootin'! Pay attention, Jarad, me boy!"

The oldtimers took aim, waiting for the creatures to approach. They stood perfectly still, fingers on triggers. At last the beasts drew near, and the men could release their missiles.

Both bolts whizzed toward the monsters, scoring their marks. Instead of sinking deep into the black flesh, however, the bolts bounced off and tumbled to the ground. Other arrows, catapult loads, and hurled daggers found their targets but also careened away. The monsters didn't so much as miss a wingflap and returned the favor by firing poisoned tail spikes at Phlan's troops.

As the leather-winged monsters flapped boldly toward the weakened defenders, a magical assault took shape, streaming toward the incoming horrors. Magical bolts of every size and color seared toward the unholy mob. A third of the energies fizzled uselessly away, but the remainder hissed and popped against the fiends in a rainbow of death. A purple streak blasted two spinagons, bowling them over and knocking them helplessly to the ground, where they exploded in a shower of cinders. A yellow and a blue streak each destroyed another spinagon. The mass of fiends broke formation and flapped around the sphere of wizards, hurling poisoned tail spikes. They bounced off the enormous shield of magical protection that surrounded the wizards and crumbled to dust.

A quarter of an hour and dozens of spells later, the last of the spinagons tumbled to the ground. The pit fiend roared in anger, circling to retreat. Its minions had wounded some of the defenders, but this city was proving to be unusually tough. Half the citizens should have run in fear at the mere sight of the creatures from the Nine Hells. But even the fiends' dreaded magical attacks had been deflected with little harm.

The seething pit fiend flapped away from Phlan, back toward the waiting Marcus.

Cries of victory erupted from the walls as the last monster flew away. The troops turned toward the more mundane battle with new energy.

Moments later, the soldiers that remained on the battlefield also broke ranks and turned to run. Catapult loads and arrows followed them until the soldiers were beyond the perimeter of lighted crossbow bolts. The cheer that arose in Phlan was deafening.

As the shouts subsided, Tarl looked slowly about, surveying the walls for damage. His mouth fell open as he was struck by the reality of what had occurred. The entire city of Phlan, walls and all, was in an impossibly huge cavern.

"Look, Master Tarl! Someone has stolen the skies over Phlan!"

The cleric took a deep breath. "No one has stolen our skies, friend. They've stolen us."

Shal settled out of the air to stand next to her husband, confirming his statement with a nod. Though their situation looked grim, both adventurers knew that the danger had only begun.