Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [113]
"Hurry, Kern," Tarl whispered softly, hoping somehow, somewhere, his son could hear him. "Wherever you are, you must hurry."
As the zombies rushed forward, jabbering with wicked glee, Tarl held up a single hand.
"By Tyr, none shall pass!"
Suddenly a shining wall of transparent blue fire appeared, sealing the gaping breach in the temple's wall. The zombies recoiled from it. They could not pass through the holy light. Tarl clenched his jaw, concentrating. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his furrowed brow, rolling in rivulets down his face. He could feel Tyr's strength flowing through him like liquid fire. A strange elation began to fill him; a fierce grin spread across his face. His days of self-pity and mourning were gone. All that mattered was his belief in Tyr and in justice.
By all the gods of light, Shal, Tarl shouted inwardly, I will not give up! Somehow, I will hold on!
Zombies shrieked in rage as by the dozens they tried to pass through the gates and perished. The magical barrier did not waver. Tarl's faith sustained him against their onslaught But gradually, the fire in his blood burned hotter and hotter.
Inside the temple's portico, Anton staggered weakly to his feet. He gazed between the marble columns. Awe filled him at what he saw.
"How long… how long do you think he can hold the wall?" he asked in hoarse amazement.
"Until the magic consumes him," Sister Sendara answered sharply, "and he dies."
* * * * *
Kern and his companions were up with the cold gray dawn.
Daile drew her previously miniaturized mount from a pocket and set it on the ground. Miltiades' white stallion breathed on the figurine, and instantly Daile's roan mare was snorting and pawing at the ground. Unfortunately, Evaine and Gamaliel were without mounts.
"I can run as swiftly as any horse," Gamaliel said with a laugh. Shimmering, his body remolded itself into his feline form. It was Listle who came up with a solution for Evaine. The elf gave her horse to the sorceress while she herself rode behind Trooper on Lancer's broad back. This was much to the elder paladin's chagrin, however, for it was clear after the first mile that Listle was a definite saddle hog.
"All your squirming is going to make me sick," he growled to the elven illusionist. "Can't you sit still?"
"No," she replied sweetly.
The old paladin grunted in exasperation. Listle gave a smug smile and wriggled another inch forward on the saddle, claiming still more territory for herself.
Trooper bent down and pretended to scratch his mount's ears. "All right, Lancer," he whispered surreptitiously to the big stallion. "I'll hold onto the saddle horn while you start kicking…"
"Elves have very good ears, Trooper," Listle warned.
The paladin hurriedly sat up straight, a guilty look on his face.
Kern shook his head as he watched this exchange. He could almost believe that this was the old Listle he saw, unpredictable and light-hearted, smiling and joking as if she had never spoken of Sifahir's tower or of what had happened to her there. Almost. Except that every once in a while, when she must have thought he wasn't looking, she would glance fleetingly in Kern's direction, sadness in her silvery eyes.
"You can't love an illusion," he muttered softly to himself. "Gods, you can't even get a grip on one!"
He shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn't think about Listle. Not now. He had to be ready to face Sirana at the pool.
All morning they made slow progress, ascending a narrow pass between knife-edged peaks, breaking trail through deep drifts of soft, powdery snow. The wind at the summit whipped at them cruelly, and they quickly descended the other side of the pass, riding into a deep valley.
"Are we nearing the pinnacle of stone, Evaine?" Miltiades asked as the sun began its westward trek. The paladin rode close to the sorceress.
"I think so," she replied. "I would know for certain if I could get a look above the trees."
"I think I can arrange something," Daile said a bit mysteriously. Without explanation,