Pool of Radiance (8 page)

Salen removed a leather box from her backpack. She lifted the cover of the box to reveal two pairs of daggers, one glistening black, the other white.

“Lovely weapons,” said Ren. “May I?” He waited for Salen to nod before picking up each dagger in turn to test its balance. The blades were made for throwing into live targets, but they were perfect for the game as well. Each blue-steel blade was wider near its point than it was at its base. The onyx and crystal handles were slim and capped with gold ends that offset the weight of the wide blades. In the hands of a skilled thrower, any one of the daggers could easily slice through flesh and bone. Ren had no doubt they had been used for just that purpose.

“Go ahead, try a throw,” urged Salen.

Ren needed no coaxing. After a year’s absence from thieving, rangering, or any other kind of action, he was more than ready to heft a balanced weapon in his hand. Even though he had chosen a seemingly aimless existence until such time as he was ready to hunt down the person responsible for Tempest’s death, Ren was generally a man of action. Passivity was not in his makeup. Somehow these three lighthearted women, with their wagers and laughter, had awakened a part of Ren’s nature he had kept buried for too long. He picked up the onyx-handled pair of daggers and released each in turn with a fluid twist of his torso and flick of his wrist. Both blades thunked solidly into the line that bordered the center circle of the target.

“Not bad,” said Salen, taking up the crystal-handled pair. “I enjoy a challenge.” Her movements were deft and experienced. The blades landed within the border of the center circle, hardly a hairbreadth apart.

There are probably a hundred ways to play the game of daggers, and Ren and Salen started by haggling over the rules. Before beginning in earnest, they each made several more tosses till each player thought he had the measure of the other.

Ren hadn’t felt so good in months. He’d forgotten how a good blade felt in his hand, the splendid feeling of control when his body did exactly as he wanted it to. For the first time since Tempest died, he found himself scanning the room, sizing up the people. His rangering skills enabled him to tell at a glance if a foe was formidable. His thieving skills allowed him to estimate the possible takes available in the room. Salen was good, but the contest was yet to begin, and Ren was feeling great.

As Salen removed the blades from the round wooden slab, Gwen came up close to Ren and touched him lightly on the arm. “You’re good,” she said, “and you’re no eyesore, either.” She ran a finger teasingly close to the opening of his tunic, and turned her body till she was directly alongside him. He could feel his heart speed up as she tossed her rich dark hair back and her body brushed his side. Her thick, brown hair smelled like a summer meadow, and he could feel his head reel as sensations he had ignored for twelve long months rose now, unbidden. “You know, if you didn’t smell so bad, I could see us getting together.”

Before he could respond, Gwen whisked away from him and returned to the table where Jensena was now sitting, awaiting the start of the match.

“It’s getting hot in here,” said Ren, turning back to face Salen.

“I’m sure you think it is,” she said with a knowing glimmer in her eyes. “What do you say we get started in earnest?” Ren nodded, and she returned his two black daggers and made her first toss of the contest. One thunked into the outer edge of the center circle, and the other landed in the border between the center and the second ring.

She’s tough, Ren thought, but not tough enough. In one motion, Ren slid both blades into throwing position, one in each hand, and flicked them both toward the target with only a fraction of a second between throws. He watched in horror as the two blades parted as they neared the target and slammed into the board several inches wide of center! He stalked to the board and jerked out the two black-handled blades. They looked right; they even felt right—until he pulled out the crystal-handled daggers and felt the difference in balance, and then he knew he had been duped. These ladies were clever. The difference between the blades he had started with and the ones they had substituted was as subtle as the exchange had been. It was a perfect response to his stacked-platter prank, but he would not be duped.

He returned to the throwing mark, shaking his head. “Salen, you’re throwing with a vengeance. On the other hand, I appear to be losing my touch. I’m afraid if we make too many more tosses, I’ll only be humiliated. What do you say we make one last throw for the money and call it quits?”

“That’s all right by me” she said quickly, her hands shooting out for the white daggers. She carefully took her stance, tossed, and planted both of her daggers in the center of the circle. The quivering blades were barely over an inch apart. She stood back proudly, her eyes on Ren’s big hands and the black-handled blades he was holding.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if I use my own daggers for this final throw,” Ren said matter-of-factly. In a blur of motion, before she had a chance to respond, he had dropped the substitute daggers and pulled his own ebony killing blades from his boot tops. Without a moment’s hesitation, he threw his daggers with full force at the pine target. They slammed into the board, lodged up to their hilts, perfectly positioned at the center of the board, directly between Salen’s blades.

The three fighters glanced nervously at each other and at the quivering hilts of the ebony blades. Ren walked to the board and removed Salen’s daggers and his own as if he were pulling them from warm tallow.

As he returned to the three, Salen tossed him a sack of silver. Then the three of them headed for the door of the inn without saying a word. “Maybe another time,” said Ren softly as he watched them go. He hadn’t meant to insult the three female warriors or chase them away. They were as competitive as he, and it had been too long since he’d faced a good challenge. He realized that he had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

He sheathed his daggers and returned to the bar. “There’s tables to be wiped,” said Sot in a near whisper, awe apparent in both his voice and his look.

“No problem,” said Ren amiably. It was the beginning of the best night he’d had in a long time.

4

Fists and Friends

The sun was setting on a cloudless sky over the city of Phlan. As with every evening in Phlan, a double shift of watchmen and soldiers readied themselves for whatever dangers the night might bring. Darkness was the time favored by the many monster tribes living in the ruins of Old Phlan, which surrounded the new walled portion of the city that its builders called “Civilized Phlan.” Orcs roamed the slums immediately adjacent to the new city. Goblins and hobgoblins wandered the neighboring Kuto’s Well and Podol Plaza areas. It was said that fire and hill giants ruled at Stojanow Gate and Valjevo Castle, landmarks that could be seen from the walls of the merchants’ quarter. Rumor had it that even these monsters were afraid of the undead that were starting to rise in greater and greater numbers from Valhingen Graveyard, which was a mere five miles from the city’s shipping docks.

It was on one of the city’s wide piers that Tarl was walking when he spotted the figure of a woman, lying belly down, hammering on the dock so hard that she was actually causing the heavy wooden planks to rattle with each blow of her fists. Beside her stood a great horse. As Tarl moved closer, he could hear that the woman was crying. His curiosity piqued, he edged closer still.

The horse raised its head as Tarl approached, but it made no movement or sound. The woman remained oblivious to his presence. Tarl could see now that blood was caking to the sides of her hands, where they were worn raw from hammering against the nails and wood splinters on the dock planking. Compelled by his faith, Tarl squatted down and grabbed the woman’s large hands in his own. “Please, lady, you must stop. Enough is enough.” Had the woman struggled against his grip, he probably could not have stopped her from pulling her hands loose and resuming pounding the dock, but she turned her head toward him and left her hands extended, as if perhaps her energies were spent, Tarl could feel the power of a healing spell flowing through his own body and into hers as he muttered a prayer to Tyr. Slowly the caked blood loosened and sloughed off. New skin formed, pink and pale, to seal the broken blood vessels. More new skin formed to cover the tender wound. Soon her torn hands became smooth again.

Though Tarl’s clerical skills did not approach those of Sontag, he was blessed with great innate power. He had used his healing abilities before, and had always found healing a very special exchange. The process inevitably involved sharing something extremely deep and personal with the receiver. Healing this woman was no different, except that he felt as though she also had shared something deep and personal with him. He squeezed her strong hands in his own and then pulled the woman gently to a sitting position. He stared into her eyes, and even in the dim twilight, he could see that they were a captivating green. The highlights of her long, full hair shimmered red in the flickering light of the torches that lined the docks. He glanced down, aware that he was staring, and that is when he realized that her leather garments were ridiculously tight, stretched over her tall frame in such a way that they awkwardly revealed much of her impressively ample body.

Tarl cleared his throat and started to speak. His voice cracked as he introduced himself. “I am… Tarl Desanea, a cleric of the warrior god, Tyr. I am … at your service….”

“Thank you,” said the woman quietly.

Still holding her hands, Tarl pulled the young woman up to her feet. He swallowed hard as he realized that she was nearly a fist’s height taller than he and impressively fit. His face reddened as he noticed that a patch of material above her left breast had torn loose, revealing more woman than he had ever seen in his twenty years. He stepped back toward the horse, releasing his grip on her hands. “Uh, do you have a…blanket… or something?”

The big horse stamped and snorted, and Tarl flushed once more.

“Yes, of course,” said the woman, quickly pulling the panel up to cover herself as she realized the reason for the cleric’s embarrassment. She then turned to the horse. “Easy, Cerulean. I think we can trust this man.” She pointed toward a bedroll lashed securely to the horse’s back.

Tarl untied the bedroll, rolled a blanket from it, and moved close to drape it around the woman’s broad shoulders. As he did, he noticed her warm, perfumed scent, and as he stepped back, he prayed a silent thank-you to Tyr for not demanding abstinence from his clerics.

“I’m sorry. It seems I’ve forgotten my manners,” said the woman, turning demurely to face Tarl again. “I’m Shal… Shal Bal of Cormyr. I am a mage, formerly an apprentice to the great Ranthor.”

Tarl found himself staring again. He had never before seen a mage so long on physical prowess. Most, he assumed, found their way into the mentally taxing profession because they did not have the physical strength for other jobs, and once they became practicing magic-users, they damaged their bodies even further by repeatedly performing physically taxing magicks. This woman called Shal could be mistaken for a smith, or even a warrior. With practice, Tarl thought, she could probably wield a hammer as well as he, or perhaps even Anton.

As Tarl stood appraising Shal, she was doing likewise. The young cleric’s white hair did not match his youthful face. His steel-gray eyes were wise, and yet innocent at the same time. She had no real reason to trust him. She knew only what he had told her—that he was a warrior cleric of Tyr—but she had felt a strange bond from the minute he took her hands in his and healed her. She recalled, too, that Ranthor had always spoken highly of Tyrian clerics. He’d referred to them as “just” and “men you can trust at your back,” words he didn’t use lightly.

“Uh, Tarl,” Shal began awkwardly. “Do you know this town? Is there some place I could go to purchase some new leathers?”

“Of course… forgive me.” He looked tentatively at the horse. “Can we both ride that animal? I mean, I assume you do, but will he let me ride, too?”

“What do you say, Cerulean?” asked Shal, reaching for the saddle.

If I have my say, I’d say either one of you is quite heavy enough.

Shal hadn’t really expected an answer, and as before, the horse’s mental communication took her by surprise. She was by no means used to the idea of the familiar sending messages directly to her brain.

“So what do you want me to do—ride while he walks?” she answered in annoyance.

Tarl looked at her quizzically. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I was just answe—uh, talking to the horse.” She might have to explain about Cerulean to him sometime, she thought, but not now. She let Tarl cinch the saddle and help her up into it, then reached down and gave him a hand.

Oof! Double oats tonight, Mistress, especially after you made me do all that running for nothing.

Shal attempted a mental Shut up, but she could only guess that Cerulean had “heard” her when he snorted and bolted into a trot before he had even gotten off the docks and onto shore.

“Whoa, Cerulean! We’ll hold it to a walk for now,” Shal directed.

The horse obliged, but Shal couldn’t help but wonder if he was intentionally adding an extra jar to his previously smooth gait.

Tarl had only been in the city of Phlan for two days himself, but the brothers from the temple had been free with advice about the merchants in town, and he had done some exploring himself as he tried to learn more about the beasts and undead creatures living outside the walls of Civilized Phlan.

He directed Shal to a seamstress, a pleasant woman who had mended Tarl’s robes for him just the day before. When Shal let the blanket drop from her shoulders, the seamstress had to fight to keep from gawking. She couldn’t recall another woman she’d ever done a fitting for with a physique like Shal’s, and she certainly couldn’t remember anyone with such ridiculously fitted clothes. “Wha—what can I do for ya?” she finally spluttered.

Shal winced as she saw what she took to be the woman’s reaction to her size. Shal had been painfully aware, when she first stood next to Tarl, of how tall she had become, but his stares had seemed to be warm, even vaguely admiring. This woman was looking at her as if she were a freak. Shal almost wanted to break down and cry again, but she fought to keep her voice firm. “I need some clothes for the night—anything will do—and I’d like to pick up a full set of tailored leathers just as soon as you can have them ready.”