James M. Ward The Pool 3 Pool of Twilight

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"What are you?" she demanded.
"I am Sigh," the creature breathed in its indistinct voice.
"I am a bastellus. The world in which my kind dwells is far from this one. But
there are some of your race there. They know us as dreamstalkers." Tendrils of
shadow floated about the bastellus like ethereal tentacles. "How is it that
you summoned me?"
"I ask the questions here," Sirana proclaimed imperi-ously. Dutifully, the
creature fell silent.
Sirana was well pleased. It seemed the guardian of the pool of twilight had
kept its part of the bargain.
She had never seen a creature of such perfect blackness. It was beautiful. And
it was all hers.
"Shall I enter the dreams of your foes and feed upon them, mistress?" the
bastellus hissed.
"That is within your powers?"
The bastellus nodded.
Sirana smiled in cruel satisfaction, tapping a thoughtful finger against her
smooth jaw. "Very well, Sigh."
She laughed then, a rich, evil sound, the flecks of twi-light-colored light
flickering in her dancing eyes.
5
Distant Friends
"Thieves?" Tarl asked in shock. "But how can you be sure?"
"It was the way they handled themselves in battle that gave me the first
clue," Anton replied. The big, shaggy cleric of Tyr sat in a heavy oak chair
in the main chamber of Denlor's Tower. Shal was bandaging a ragged gash on
Anton's shoulder in her typically efficient manner. Kern and Listle sat at a
nearby table, picking at some food Shal had set out for them. Neither was
particularly hungry. Once the excitement of the battle had faded, Kern found
the feeling replaced by exhaustion and not just a little trepidation, for the
fiends had made it clear they were after him.
"Those warriors were used to moving about unencum-bered," Anton went on. "And
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they were obviously accus-tomed to using smaller and shorter weapons. They
kept trying to attack at close quarters even though they didn't have adequate
room to swing a long sword. All that points to their being members of the
thieves'
guild. But what clinched it were the notched ears."
"Notched ears?" Tarl asked with a frown.
"That's right. The last guildmaster, Bercan, lost his left ear in a duel some
years ago. Ever since, the thieves of Phlan have notched their left ears as a
sign of loyalty." Anton grimaced in pain as Shal deftly but firmly tightened
the bandage around his shoulder. "By all the gods of light, woman, can't you
be a little gentler? I'm hurt enough as it is."
"Something tells me you'll live, Anton," Shal said dryly. He gave her a
glowering look, which she returned with a laugh. She gathered her salves and
bandages, and turned her attention to Kern. Fortunately, none of his wounds
were as deep as the gouge in Anton's shoulder.
Listle spoke up. It was virtually impossible to keep the elf out of a
conversation for very long anyway.
"What would the thieves of Phlan want with the Hammer of Tyr, Patriarch Anton?
Could they have ransomed it back to the temple for gold?"
"Perhaps," Anton replied with a shrug. "Or more likely they were interested in
the riches that are said to be hid-den with the hammer."
Tarl struck fist against palm. The blind cleric paced before the hearth in
agitation. "There's still something about this that bothers me. The thieves'
guild has never attacked the temple before, let alone in broad daylight. And
posing as warriors is very unusual. What could have made them do it? There's
something else to this mystery."
"Fiends." Shal looked up from her work, a grim light in her emerald eyes.
"Since when have thieves been able to summon fiends from the Nine Hells?"
Anton stood. "Since never," he growled.
"Then it might be interesting to know who summoned them," Shal mused. "If we
answer that question, I
think we'll find out who it is that so desperately wants the ham-mer. And the
Hammerseeker." She frowned disapprov-ingly at her son as the salve she had
smeared across one of his cuts turned into a puff of sticky blue cobwebs. "I
told you to concentrate on keeping your wall of resistance down, Kern," she
said sternly.
"The salves won't work if you can't control your unmagic for at least a few
seconds."
"Sorry." Kern's expression was sheepish. "I don't know why, but it keeps
getting harder."
Shal studied him for a long moment. "It's most likely the aftereffect of the
battle," she decided. "The more danger you're in, the stronger your unmagic is
likely to get." She set down the jar of magical salve, reaching for a cloth
soaked in warm water laced with willow bark. "I'm afraid you're going to have
to heal naturally this time."
"You'd better get used to battle, Kern," Anton warned the young man gravely.
"I have little doubt that this was only the first in a wave of attacks.
Someone wants the Hammer of Tyr very badly, and they're going to do what-ever [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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