Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [1]
"No! Tyr, help me! It wasn't supposed to end like this!"
There was no answer to his cry. His god had forsaken him. The shadow-shrouded being stirred again, readying its final blow.
* * * * *
"Kern, come back to us!"
A cry reached through the darkness. The voice was calm and reassuring, but faint, as if coming to him from across a vast distance.
"He can't hear you, Shal." This voice was deeper than the first, gruffer. Despite its faintness, there was a distinct edge of worry to it.
"Yes, he can. He can and will." The voice seemed to grow louder, cutting through the darkness. "You're having one of your dreams, Kern. Let it go. You have to come back to us."
He struggled to break free, but the darkness was too heavy. It pressed down upon him. He couldn't breathe. It was no use.
"Kern Miltiades Desanea, come back this instant!"
With all his might he struggled upward, toward a faint light that shone brighter and brighter as he rose. Just when he was about to give up, he broke through the surface, and a ragged, shuddering breath filled his lungs.
"Mother… Father…" His voice croaked like an old frog's from a throat as dry as bone dust. "It was the dream again."
He was lying in his bed in the comfortingly familiar chamber in Denlor's Tower where he had slept every night of his twenty-two years. A beautiful middle-aged woman smiled down at him. Her hair formed a flame-colored corona around her face, and her green eyes were so bright as to put emeralds to shame. An aura of magic seemed to shimmer about her. But then, she was a sorceress.
"It's all right now, Kern," Shal said, smoothing his hair-red hair, just like hers-from his forehead. "You're back with us now."
He nodded and smiled, the expression suddenly turning into a grimace of pain.
"Shal, what is it?" Tarl asked in concern. A hale, broad-shouldered man, Kern's father was still in his prime despite his snow-white hair. His sightless eyes stared blankly into the air as he reached out to lay a hand on his son.
Kern cried out in pain.
Shal's brow furrowed as she threw back the woolen blanket that covered her son. A gasp escaped her lips.
"Kern, you're wounded!"
Kern stared in astonishment. Four long gashes marked his white nightshirt. Crimson blood soaked the garment. His chest quivered as he drew shallow, painful breaths. The nightmare replayed itself in his mind. He remembered the shadow-filled nave. Something had lurked there, lashing out at him with midnight-dark talons.
"But… it was just a dream!" Kern protested. Instantly he regretted his shout as blood oozed from the gashes.
"How can this be?" Tarl asked. Gently, expertly, his fingers explored his son's injury. Tarl had been a cleric of Tyr for over three decades and had seen and healed more wounds on the battlefield than he could ever have counted. "You've had the dream a dozen times, Kern, yet this has never happened before."
Shal laid a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Can you heal him, beloved?" Her voice was calm and controlled, but urgency shone in her green eyes.
Tarl nodded, laying both of his strong hands on Kern's chest. Briefly, the cleric shut his unseeing eyes. A prayer tumbled from his lips. "May Tyr grant me power in this time of need," he finished. A sapphire nimbus sprang to life around his hands and spread over Kern's wounds, radiating healing power.
Suddenly the magical glow vanished. Blue cobwebs drifted down in its place, covering Kern and the bed in a sticky web.
Shal frowned, glancing at her husband. "When was the last time one of your healing spells went awry?"
Tarl was dumbfounded. "When I was a neophyte, about thirty years ago. I don't understand what happened. The spell was working fine, then something seemed to suck the magic right out of it." Tarl pressed his hands against the four gashes on Kern's chest, slowing the bleeding.
Kern gritted his teeth. Pain was nothing to a paladin, he reminded himself. But then, he wasn't