James M. Ward - The Pool 2 - Pools of Darkness

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Pools of Darkness
Book 2 of The Pool Trilogy
By James M. Ward and Anne K. Brown
Scanned, formatted and proofed by BW-SciFi
Ebook version 1.0
Release Date: November, 4th, 2003
PROLOGUE
"Not again! It won't happen again!"
Eyes ablaze with uncontrolled fire, the god sprayed bolts of lightning on all who cringed before him.
Those that missed showered through the sky and onto the in-nocent and unsuspecting population of Faerun.
Mer-chants, farmers, and mothers with small children ran for cover.
"I've played by the rules. I've organized, I've attracted worshipers, I've even granted a few of them
special priv-ileges! I'm getting nowhere in this realm and I'm fed up."
The god slammed his fist on the arm of his throne. As he glared at those assembled around him, his eyes
sent waves of fear among the creatures who looked on.
"Something must be done! I will not lose one more worshiper! What is it going to take for those pathetic
hu-mans to respect and fear me? Any ideas?" he hissed.
Those in the audience chamber cowered. Many found themselves unable to meet his gaze. This being
might have been attractive if not for his terrific temper and uncontrolled wrath. A handsomely sculpted
face, broad shoulders, and a graceful gait could not conceal the an-ger and chaos that dwelled within.
No one answered the lord, though they all knew some-one was going to pay for the silence.
Boom!
A blast from a smoldering censer above the god's head transformed seven high priests into piles of
smoking ash. The aroma of burned incense overpowered the chamber.
Crackle!
Withering beams of darkness sprayed from the god's hands and dissolved six huge pit fiends from the
planes of Gehenna into swirls of dust rolling across the polished granite floor.
Ssst!
A split-second of concentration changed five of the god's powerful evil wizards into pillars of salt in five
dif-ferent cities around the realm.
The god ranted, shouted, raved. No creature in the chamber could escape the tirade.
Several huge, warty fiends, more animal than human, foresaw their immediate futures and threw
themselves at the feet of the god, shouting in unison.
"Bane, redeemer, boss, exalted one, you gotta get tough with those bums. You got the power. You got
the magic. You just gotta make 'em notice you."
"Notice me? Isn't it enough that my agents create strife throughout Faerun? Isn't it enough that the
hatred they foster has corrupted whole cities? What does a god have to do to get a little attention down
there?"
Bane again slammed his fist on his throne. The intense rumbling of the chamber sent nearly every
two-legged creature in the room crashing to the floor.
"You're doin' it right, but you need a new approach," the fiends groveled. "We'll help ya, and we'll get
some wizards and some demi-powers to help ya. Before you know it, you'll have all the power and
followers you want. All it takes is a little godlike act directed at some of those cities. We got a plan. . . ."
"Why didn't you say so before? I've been waiting for you so-called advisors to advise me! Get on with
it!" Bane slammed his fist on his knee, and a female sorcer-ess who had tired him for a long time was
struck by a lightning bolt. When the smoke cleared, nothing re-mained but a few scraps of charred silk from
her gown.
The warty fiends leaned in close, but not too close, to their raging lord.
"Well, boss, this is how we see it... ."
1
City in Turmoil
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 weath-er. By noon, the brilliant blue sky was
obscured by omi-nous, 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,
shut-ters bolted, and children were ordered to play indoors.
By suppertime, the countryside was drowning in tor-rential rains and hail. Intense winds blew clapboards
off houses, tore branches off trees, and knocked over any-thing 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
founda-tions. 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 hint-ed at bad weather.
As evening wore on, the storm's intensity grew. Light-ning 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 shim-mering 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 nor-mally 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 whis-pered in her ear. "You've been through worse
storms be-fore, 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 plen-ty of storms, but this one feels . . . different. I
can't ex-plain it." She buried her face against Tarl's arm.
Her husband kissed her hair gently, but he was genu-inely alarmed. Few things scared Shal. After all the
ad-ventures and monsters she and Tarl had faced together, they both had nerves of steel that matched their
tall, ath-letic 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
con-tact 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 sor-ceress repeated the words of the spell, and as Tarl watched, a purple mist flowed from her fingers
and sur-rounded the fragments of glass. The pieces rose from the floor to assemble themselves into their
proper posi-tions. 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
us-ing spellcasting to conquer mundane chores. And the in-cident had temporarily distracted her troubled
mind.
Tarl clambered out of bed and reached for an enor-mous 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
light-ning 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 shoul-der, 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 pud-dled 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
howl-ing 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 wiz-ards cowered from the blinding
light and the blast.
Suddenly all was still. The rain and wind stopped. Lightning no longer streaked overhead. The eerie
si-lence 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 re-markable 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
cross-bow, 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 com-in'." 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 pep-pered 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 load-ing 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
pon-cho, 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 chil-dren."
"But we—"
"Shhh. Don't think about it right now. You need to re-lax and try to sleep." Shal opened her mouth, but
Tarl pressed a finger to her lips. The wizard gave up and set-tled 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 dot-ted 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 enor-mous buckets of rock without
waiting to catch first sight of the enemy.
"Hssst. Ston! See anything?" Tulen's voice was a gravel-ly 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 bride-grooms. 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 sol-diers materialized within the circle of lights. The
sol-diers 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 at-tackers 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 re-newed 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 wiz-ard who commanded the enemy forces watched
the as-sault. 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 sol-dier 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 addi-tion 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, re-vealing 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.
Al-though the creature resembled a gargoyle, anyone could see that its power was a hundredfold greater.
The mon-ster'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 horri-fying 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 at-tackers with ease. Bodies piled up outside the walls,
while less than a dozen city guards had been pro-nounced 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 hob-goblin 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." Grip-ping 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 be-fore. "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 midafter-noon. 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
detect-ed. 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 gigan-tic 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, how-ever, 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 rain-bow 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 spina-gon. 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
prov-ing 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 mon-ster flew away. The troops turned toward the
more mundane battle with new energy.
Moments later, the soldiers that remained on the bat-tlefield 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, sur-veying the walls for damage. His mouth fell open
as he was struck by the reality of what had occurred. The en-tire 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
situa-tion looked grim, both adventurers knew that the dan-ger had only begun.
2
Chilling Dreams
One hundred miles to the north of the spot where Phlan had stood, a seasoned ranger camped in a tight
grove of pine trees amid the violent gales and lightning. The warrior slept soundly despite the weather, but
haunting images of danger played through his mind, causing him to toss and turn.
"Shal! Look out!" The ranger sat up in the darkness, screaming, as lightning struck a nearby pine. "Tarl!
There's something—" He stopped as he realized that he didn't know what he was about to say next. Rain
sprayed through the evergreen branches and rolled off the canvas propped over the ranger's bedroll.
Three times in the last four weeks, Ren had dreamed the same nightmare. Now his head dropped into
his hands, and he rubbed his forehead, as if clearing the im-ages from his mind. His pulse thumped in his
temples.
Ren shook his head hard. Water spun off his hair in all directions. Despite the lean-to, he was wet from
head to toe. The relentless wind drove the rain under every leaf and into every crevice.
"Why do I keep having that dream?" Ren spoke aloud, even though no one was around to hear.
Reaching for his sword, he scanned the trees and listened, alert for any passing orcs that may have heard
his scream.
Several tense moments went by, but no creatures approached. Satisfied, Ren arose in the darkness and
packed his wet gear. Even the equipment inside his back-pack was damp. The rain and storms hadn't let up
for over four weeks. The seasoned ranger wondered if he would ever dry out again.
His mount, a huge war-horse named Stolen, shook its wet mane and flicked its tail. Then Stolen stood
stoically as Ren loaded the saddlebags and patted the massive horse. "Stolen, old boy, it's probably better
that we're awake. The orcs will be out, crawling these woods. Time to get busy hunting them." As he
swung onto the war-horse, he thought to himself, What a time to be having nightmares. Just when I've got a
job to do.
A little more than four weeks earlier, Ren had peti-tioned the council of Glister to settle a nearby valley.
Like most rangers, Ren didn't believe in the ownership of land. A person could settle the land, care for it,
even drive out unwanted creatures. But the land would out-last anyone who might claim to own it. Ren
merely asked for the right to live there undisturbed.
After several long hours of verbal parrying and thrust-ing with Glister's council, he had come away with
an agreement. If Ren eliminated the bands of marauding orcs that terrorized the region, he would be
awarded a charter to live in the valley in peace. The council had offered the ranger the use of Glister's own
troops, but Ren preferred to work alone. Now he trotted through the forest on his war-horse, quite alone
and quite wet.
Ren sighed as he thought of the Glister council. He had done his best to make a good impression. The
ranger had walked into the chambers that morning in a suit of gleaming chain mail of fine elven
craftsmanship. His magical daggers, called Left and Right, were visibly sticking out of his dragonskin boots.
A two-handed long sword hung in its sheath across his back, and a shimmer-ing elven cloak of displacing
was draped over one arm. His gauntlets, equipment belt, and bracers, also made of dragon hide, were
shining and well oiled. Standing six-foot-six, the ranger's impressive equipment and his gray-peppered beard
spoke volumes about his skills and experience. But if Ren was a man of action, he had al-ways been a
simple speaker. Looking back, the ranger wondered if his mission might have been easier if he had
appeared slightly less capable.
"Like the way I look now," Ren muttered. His hair and beard were shaggy and plastered to his head by
the rain. His elven chain mail was caked with mud, as were his dragonskin boots and gauntlets. Grass and
pine needles clung to the mud and stuck to his wet leggings. Even the huge war-horse looked bedraggled.
"Well, maybe the en-emy will underestimate my fighting abilities," he said half-heartedly. Stolen trotted
through the trees.
Ren had been pushing the war-horse as hard as he dared in the darkness. He had scouted the land
carefully earlier that day and knew where the orcs were gather-ing. Leaving Stolen in a circle of trees, the
ranger crawled to a rise high above the encampment.
Slowly the ranger peered over the hillock. A ring of watchfires illuminated the valley. What had been a
small brook flowing into the lowland was enlarged by the rain into a wide stream, but the marshy conditions
didn't seem to bother the orcs. They were beginning to arise from soggy tents, gathering about a central
bonfire.
"Ren, you sorry thief, what have you gotten yourself into now?" He groaned as he tried to hold his grip in
the mud and keep his face out of the water. He tried to con-sole himself by thinking that the mud covering
him would serve as a useful camouflage.
As he watched, more and more orcs joined the circle around the fire. As the surveillance wore on, Ren's
mind wandered to his recurrent nightmare. The ranger hadn't thought about Shal and Tarl for months. The
three of them were good friends, but their paths had di-verged after they'd killed the evilly charmed bronze
dragon controlling an army of orcs and ogres that were menacing Phlan. When Shal and Tarl became
lovers, Ren felt out of place. They had parted friends and sent mes-sages back and forth, but ten years had
passed in the meantime. Ren hadn't seen his friends in three years.
The images from the nightmare lingered. He could see Shal and Tarl looking a little older than the last
time he'd seen them. The two were in Denlor's Tower, in their bed. An enormous, gut-wrenching earth
tremor and a crash of thunder was shaking the place. Shal leaped out of bed, naked, and ran to a grab a
purple cloak filled with pouches. Tarl followed, pulled on his clothes, and reached for his shield and
warhammer. The nightmare shifted to reveal Shal casting streams of violet energy at an unseen enemy and
Tarl fighting something dark and horrible. Ren's own screams always awakened him be-fore he could learn
what terrors his friends faced.
The first time he had dreamed about Shal and Tarl the ranger was disturbed, but this third nightmare left
him truly shaken. Ren wasn't one to have visions of any kind, so he was terribly afraid for his two friends.
Now he cursed the charter to which he had agreed. Ren was forced to devote all his energy to clearing
out the orcs until the job was done. If he hadn't given his sworn and signed word to terms made clear on the
vel-lum he carried, he would have dumped the responsibili-ty, forsaken his quest to settle the valley, and
sought his friends to make sure they were safe.
After the second dream, Ren had begun taking risks he normally wouldn't have taken. Any skilled
ranger could battle five or ten orcs without fear. An average warrior orc stood about five feet tall and was
usually ar-mored in anything it could steal from its victims. Orcs liked using arrows and slings rather than
getting close to the enemy to battle with swords or axes, so at close range most of them were lousy
fighters.
But the ranger knew from experience that orcs liked to travel in packs, and the larger the pack, the
bolder the orcs. Because Ren was worried about his friends, he'd started attacking packs of ten to thirty
orcs. The ranger's tactics were particularly reckless, but the size of the orc bands made such attacks
especially dangerous. A few orcs always managed to escape and warn other bands, so that eventually the
hunter had become the hunted.
In the weeks that followed, Ren had discovered many traps set by the orcs, although his keen eyes and
sharp tracking skills helped him avoid the cruder snares. Ren had spent the last two decades in the woods,
and only the elves and the native woodland creatures were more skilled at moving stealthily through the
forests.
Ren had considered returning to Glister to lead its troops into battle against the orcs, but he would have
suffered an unbearable delay. By the time he arrived in Glister, organized the militia, and led them back to
the hills, he would have lost more than five days. All his scouting would have been for nothing—the orcs
would have moved away and set new traps. Besides, Ren trust-ed his instincts and disliked worrying about
the welfare of companions.
Forcing his mind back to the task at hand, Ren peered over the hill. He caught sight of seven different
totems, each representing a different orc warband. Ren was well aware of this custom, because he had
captured six-teen such orc totems and hidden them back on the trail. Later on they would be proof to the
council that the ranger had done his job.
Squinting through the rain and darkness, the ranger saw captured dwarves in slave pens at one end of
the camp. The dwarven warriors had obviously been tortur-ed; their long beards and hair had been hacked
off. Something would have to be done to save them, and quickly. He would have to devise a plan to free the
dwarves or, as a last resort, put them out of their misery before the orcs subjected them to painful deaths.
Three of the larger orc totems concerned Ren. These were different from the others he had
encountered. They were centered in the middle of heavily guarded tents. Half-orcs roamed around them.
"Now there's a completely different breed," the ranger muttered to himself. "I hope the next time I want
to sign a charter a lightning bolt comes down and—"
Crash! A lightning bolt split the sky, and the rest of Re-n's sentence was lost in the thunder. The rain
poured more heavily, drumming on Ren's armor. He clamped his mouth shut and thought better of saying
anything more. He was in no position to push his luck.
摘要：

PoolsofDarknessBook2ofThePoolTrilogyByJamesM.WardandAnneK.BrownScanned,formattedandproofedbyBW-SciFiEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:November,4th,2003PROLOGUE"Notagain!Itwon'thappenagain!"Eyesablazewithuncontrolledfire,thegodsprayedboltsoflightningonallwhocringedbeforehim.Thosethatmissedshoweredthroughthe...

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