Pool of Twilight

7

"You tricked us, Primul!" Listle fumed.

"What trick?" the big elf rumbled jovially, patting the fine golden chain around his waist. "Did you ask me if I had a magic belt? I certainly didn't hear you ask me if I had a magic belt."

"It doesn't matter," she countered, her silver eyes molten with fury.

"He's right, Listle," Kern said grimly. It had been his mistake to agree to the green elf's test Now he had to bear the consequences.

"Shut up, Kern," she snapped. "We already know that your skull is full of rocks." She angrily poked a finger against Primul's barrel chest. "Release him from the bargain, Primul. Now."

"Fine," the elf spat in disgust, his green eyes tinged with fiery crimson. "I'll release you, human, and you can run away with your dishonorable tail between your legs like a cur."

"No, Primul," Kern said calmly, surprised at the grit in his own voice. "I gave you my word. I won't back down." He held up a hand before Listle could protest. "I know what you're going to say. I have an important quest to complete. That's true. But if I break my word, then I am not a man of honor, and I don't deserve to be a true paladin. Tyr would never allow me to gain his hammer, anyway. It would all be for nothing. At least this way"-he gulped-"I die like a paladin. Tell my parents I died with honor." Kern's heart beat wildly in his chest

Listle stared at him, too stunned for further protest

"I'm ready, Primul." Kern knelt and bowed his head.

"Excellent," the massive elf said, easily hefting the heavy battle-axe in one hand.

Kern whispered a prayer to Tyr. He hadn't expected things to end up this way, but he hoped Tarl would not be too disappointed in him. At least he had preserved his honor.

"Prepare to meet your creator, human," Primul said with a deep, hearty chuckle. He raised the axe.

Kern forced himself to stare ahead. He was determined not to flinch. He would not show himself a coward.

"Now!" the green elf bellowed fearfully.

Kern steeled his will. He heard the axe whistling through the air as it descended. But Kern tapped an inner reservoir of strength and determination he did not realize he possessed. He did not even bat an eyelash.

At the last possible moment, Primul turned his fatal swing. The bright edge of the axe just brushed the skin of Kern's neck, nicking it. Kern felt a small, hot trickle of blood run down his back. Primul's good-natured laughter filled the chamber.

"Primul," Listle scolded, "if this is all your idea of a joke, let me be the first to tell you that I'm not laughing."

"It is no joke, Listle. Here, on your feet, human." He reached down a big hand and hoisted a rather stunned Kern to his feet. "If Kern here had begged for mercy, or had shown any sign of fear-even the slightest flinch-I would have happily hewn his head off." He put a friendly arm around Kern's shoulders, squeezing so hard Kern thought his eyes would pop out. "You showed yourself a man of courage, Kern. That was the test. The hammer is yours."

Kern couldn't suppress a jubilant grin, not in the least because his head was still attached to his shoulders. "Thank you, Primul."

"Don't thank me," Primul said, crossing his arms and tossing his long tail of golden hair back. "Honor the gift. Defeat your foes. That will be gratitude enough."

Hardly believing his good fortune, Kern slowly picked up the magical, beautifully marbled warhammer. "I will, Primul. I promise."

"Humph!" was all Listle said.

The young archer pulled back on the bowstring until the arrow's red-feathered fletching just brushed her cheek.

"Bow, make this one fly like a hawk," she murmured. The polished ashwood bow seemed to reply with a faint, humming resonance. She released her hold. The bowstring twanged brightly, and the red-feathered arrow streaked through the chill, mist-laden air. It arced almost impossibly high above a rocky defile where a mountain stream raced over granite boulders. Then the arrow plummeted toward the far, heather-covered slope. It passed straight through the center of a small straw target and buried itself up to its fletching in the damp turf. The archer lowered the bow with a grin of satisfaction.

"You did it, Daile!" the tall man standing next to her cried excitedly. "That target is three hundred feet away if it's a step." The man was a lean, rangy fellow, handsome despite a somewhat weathered appearance. The red-gold of his neatly trimmed beard and shoulder-length hair was shot with gray, and long years of trekking in the outdoors had tanned his face like leather. But he was still obviously a hale man.

"I had a little help from the bow," Daile said, smoothing her thumb along the well-polished arc of wood.

Ren had made the bow for her over the summer. It was a long, diligent process. First he had searched the forest for the right sapling, one in which he could see the natural shape of a bow. Then he had stripped its bark, split it, and soaked the wood in water before shaping it into a long graceful arc and curing it over a slow fire. Ren had carved many bows in his life, but this time he added one different step.

For several nights he sat up late, smoothing the pale wood of the bow with two small dark stones. They were ioun stones, and magical in nature. Usually he kept them in the hilts of the daggers he wore in his boots. As he polished with the ioun stones, the bow took on a deep, vibrant luster. Finally, he could feel the weapon humming in his hands, and he knew it was ready.

He gave the bow to Daile for her birthday. Instantly she had realized there was something unique about the weapon. Once she began using it, she found she could aim more accurately and shoot farther than she had ever dreamed possible.

"A bow is only as good as the archer using it," Ren noted with a wolfish smile. "I imagine the next orcs who wander into the valley are going to be surprised when they find arrows sticking out of their throats with no archers in sight." He laughed loudly at that, slapping his leather leggings.

"That is, if you leave any orcs for me, Father," Daile replied. She knew her father all too well. Orcs that wandered within a dozen leagues of him seemed to have a difficult time keeping their heads attached to their bodies.

"Humor an old man, Daile. Killing orcs is my only real fun these days."

She sighed dramatically, as if making a terribly great sacrifice. "Oh, very well, Father. You can behead the orcs, if you absolutely must." She smiled mischievously. "But the kobolds are mine."

The man snorted. "Selfish child." He laughed deeply. "You're my daughter, all right."

"Whether you like it or not," Daile answered. She gathered their possessions into a leather pack, then slung the pack over a shoulder. She and Ren often went out on all-day sojourns through the woodland and heath of the Valley of the Falls. It gave her a chance to practice her forest skills. And though her father never said so, she knew these wanderings also gave him the opportunity to tramp and explore the land he loved.

"Let's head home," she said, plunging into a grove of ghost-pale aspens. "I'll make supper."

"What are you cooking tonight?" Ren asked.

"Orc stew."

He made a gagging sound. "You're joking."

Daile didn't answer.

"Please say you're joking, Daile." His voice was a trifle desperate this time.

Daile only a hummed a cheerful ditty, deftly picking her way along a faint forest trail that would have been invisible to an untrained eye. All Ren could do was shake his head and follow, grumbling under his breath something about where he must have gone wrong rearing his troublesome daughter.

Leading the way up the forested slope, Daile emerged from the autumn-colored forest, finding herself on the high, rocky crest of granite that Ren affectionately dubbed Dead Orc Ridge. The ridge bounded the west side of the Valley of the Falls, the valley that had been Daile's home for all eighteen years of her life. She paused, surveying the patchwork of forest and glade below. The valley was a deep, steep-sided bowl, carved long ago out of the rock by a glacier. Running through the valley's center was the narrow gorge where Daile liked to practice her archery skills. The stream had its source in a waterfall that tumbled down a sheer, thousand-foot cliff at the valley's north end.

Daile cocked her head. Even now she could hear the ceaseless roar of the waterfall, though soon its voice would be silenced by the freezing breath of winter. Not that Daile minded. Winter might give her and her father the chance to do some ice-climbing, making their way up the frozen falls with naught but two ice picks, some iron pitons, and a rope. If she could coax her father along on such an adventure, that is.

"I was beginning to think I'd lost you," she said cheerily, as Ren finally appeared out of the woods, scrambling up the scree to the ridgetop, his chest heaving. He was sweating despite the cold air sharp with the scent of snow.

"You know, you're really not as amusing as you think you are, Daile," Ren observed acidly. He sank to a boulder and accepted the leather waterskin his daughter handed him. "Just wait until old age creeps up on you. I imagine you won't find life quite so funny."

Daile frowned, chewing her lip. These last two years she had noticed a gradual, disturbing change in Ren. And it wasn't that his hair was a little grayer or that he was more cantankerous because his joints were stiff in the morning. After all, he had been gray and cantankerous for years. It was as if, one day, he had suddenly decided that he was old. Once he did, all of the aches and pains that had never bothered him before suddenly combined to slow him down. Unfortunately, Daile could guess at the reason for the shift in her father's outlook. The change had begun not long after the two of them had laid a beautiful, pale-haired druidess within a cairn of cold gray stone beside the waterfall.

"You're not all that old, Father," Daile said firmly.

"It's not polite to argue with your elders, young lady," Ren countered. But he laughed then, his old, devilish laugh, and Daile couldn't help but join in. He held out a hand, and she pulled him up off the rock with a grunt. Then the two began picking their way swiftly across the jagged top of Dead Orc Ridge. A league south of the waterfall they plunged back down into the forest, heading for the small clearing where their dwelling stood.

Ren took the lead now. They were nearly home when a faint sound brought Daile to a halt. She scanned the shadows among the towering spruces and lodgepole pines. Some instinct made her unsling her bow. Quietly but swiftly, she nocked an arrow.

Something stirred in the dimness between the trees. She caught two brief flashes of emerald. Eyes. Something was stalking them, drawing closer. Holding her breath, she raised the bow. "Seek the heart, bow," she whispered to the weapon. A faint quivering of the polished wood told her that the bow understood her words.

Suddenly, her stalker separated itself from the shadows of the forest. It was a great cat, its powerful muscles rippling under its tawny coat. Its maw was slightly open, revealing dagger-length canines, its eyes showing green fire.

Daile did not hesitate. She drew the arrow to her cheek and aimed. The animal snarled, tensing for a leap.

"No!" a voice shouted.

Just as Daile released her grip on the bowstring, a hand struck her bow, knocking the weapon aside. The arrow went wild, sinking into the trunk of a dead lodgepole with a thunk. The cat froze in reaction.

"Father, what are you doing?" she exclaimed.

"Quiet, Daile."

She shook her head in confusion. Was Ren trying to get them killed? To her astonishment, her father walked right up to the ferocious feline.

'This is crazy," Daile grumbled. She nocked another arrow, ready to slay the animal if it made a move. Then Ren did something that almost made her drop the weapon.

"It's been a long time, Gamaliel." He spoke softly to the great cat

The cat seemed to nod in reply. A shimmering radiance appeared around the animal. Its tawny fur began to undulate, and suddenly the cat was gone. In its place stood a tall barbarian man clad in fringed leather, a broadsword at his hip. But his eyes were the same emerald green as the cat's, his hair an identical tawny gold.

The arrow slipped from Daile's fingers.

"Greetings, Ren," the man who had been a cat said in a rich, growling tenor. He turned toward Daile. "And greetings to you as well, archer." A faint smile touched the barbarian's lips. "Do not be concerned," he assured her. "I would not have allowed you to harm me with your arrows."

Ren reached out and gripped the barbarian's arms in greeting. "I'd like to think you're paying me a visit because you've missed me, Gamaliel, but I have a feeling that I'd be deluding myself."

"Perhaps, ranger," the barbarian replied, his expression unreadable.

Daile could stand it no longer. "Father, what in the world is going on?"

"I trust Gamaliel here is going to tell us."

The barbarian nodded, his chiseled face solemn. "Evaine bid me to find you, Ren. She has learned of another pool." His eyes flashed from bright green to deep gold. "Phlan is in grave peril."

"Again?" Ren snorted. "It must be habit-forming." The ranger eyed the sky through the overhead branches. "It's getting dark. Can we discuss this at the keep? It's a little too chilly out here for these old bones."

The barbarian looked surprised at Ren's words, but nodded. "Lead the way."

There was nothing for Daile to do but follow.

An hour later found the three of them gathered around a stout oaken table in the center of the stone-walled keep. Daile had cleared away the supper dishes and poured three steaming mugs of mulled wine. She tentatively handed a mug to Gamaliel. He accepted it with a wordless nod. She tried to smile, but the expression faltered badly.

Hurriedly she sat down and hid her face behind her own mug. The green-eyed barbarian made her dreadfully uncomfortable, mostly because she had nearly shot him with her magical bow.

Gamaliel had told them his reason for coming in short, terse sentences. The message was simple. Kern, the son of Ren's best friends, was about to set off on a quest to find the lost Hammer of Tyr. But Gamaliel's mistress, the sorceress Evaine, had learned that a mysterious, evil wizard also sought the hammer and was drawing power from a magical pool. This was not the first time Daile had heard of the dreaded pools. She knew that Ren had helped to destroy two of them many years ago.

"The pool is hidden somewhere in the Dragonspine Mountains," Gamaliel finished. The firelight played across his sharp, striking features. "Evaine has need of your knowledge and experience. You will return with me."

Ren's eyes flashed angrily. Then suddenly he let out a guffaw, slapping his knee. "You never did bandy words, Gamaliel. I don't know why I should expect you to now."

Daile held her breath, watching the two men closely. She knew from stories that Ren and the barbarian had not cared for each other at their first meeting. But over the years, their mutual respect had drawn them into a grudging sort of friendship.

"All right," Ren grumbled. "Winter's coming on, and the gods know I'd rather spend it drinking ale by a fire than traipsing about the countryside. But I'll go if Evaine needs me."

Daile's spirit soared, but she did her best to contain her excitement. If she played her cards right, maybe, just maybe, her father would let her come along on this promising adventure.

"Good," was Gamaliel's only reply. He drained his mug of wine. The barbarian looked around the small, tidy room then. "Tell me, Ren. Where is the druidess, Ciela?"

Ren stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. "I've got to chop some more wood for the fire," he murmured, as if he had not heard the barbarian's question. He headed out into the cold, moonlit night.

Gamaliel watched him go, then turned to regard Daile. "Have I said something wrong?"

Daile stood to ladle more mulled wine for the barbarian. "You couldn't have known," she said sadly, sitting back down. "My mother-Ciela-died two winters ago." She looked around the keep. Everywhere there were still signs of the gentle druid woman: a chair she had fashioned of willow branches magically wended together, a wreath of holly that stayed perpetually green hanging above the mantel, a beautifully polished walking staff she had always taken with her on her long walks through the forest. Daile hung her head, her short red-gold hair shining in the firelight. She wondered that her mother's death could hurt so much after all this time.

"You miss her," Gamaliel said in his oddly matter-of-fact voice. "That is well."

"How so?" Daile found herself asking.

"It means that she was worth knowing."

Daile felt her heart strangely buoyed by Gamaliel's simple words. She smiled at him gratefully.

Abruptly the iron-banded door swung open, and Ren stepped through. He wasn't carrying any firewood, but Daile chose not to mention this obvious fact. "Be ready to leave at dawn," Ren told Gamaliel gruffly. "And Daile…"

She sighed. "I know, Father. I'll repair the chinks in the walls while you're away."

"Oh, really?" Ren stroked his beard with a mischievous expression. "Well, all right, Daile, if you really want to. Of course, I was hoping you'd come with me on this particular journey, but I do know how much you enjoy patching the walls with mud."

Daile's heart leaped. She couldn't believe her good fortune.

She let out a whoop of joy and sprang up to give her father a hug. "I love you!" she exclaimed, kissing his bearded cheek for emphasis.

Ren grinned at Gamaliel. "Sometimes having a daughter is almost worth the trouble."

"So it seems," the barbarian observed.