Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [44]
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.
8
Allies New and Old
It was verging on dusk when Kern and Listle rode through the unguarded Death Gates and into the dank, murky streets of the city. The fog and rain did nothing to conceal Phlan's decay. If anything, the dreary elements emphasized the squalor and filth. The cold rain was gritty and acrid with soot, streaking all the city's buildings with dark, leprous stains. It was hard to tell which of the heaps in the gutters were piles of refuse and which were bloated, rat-gnawed corpses. All smelled vile. The loud rain did nothing to mask the curses, screams, and wicked laughter that drifted down from dimly lit windows.
Kern's spirits, so high after gaining the enchanted silver and steel warhammer, instantly plummeted. Even if he did manage to recover the Hammer of Tyr, he wondered if he could do it in time to save the fast deteriorating city.
The young warrior and elf rode into a desolate square. Once the marble fountain in its center had bubbled with clear, sweet water. Now black sludge oozed from the urn clasped by a stone cherub. The liquid gurgled sickeningly into the fountain's half-full basin. So much for watering the horses here, Kern thought glumly. He swung his palfrey in the direction of Denlor's Tower.
Pounding hoofbeats shattered the air.
Wide-eyed, Kern whirled his mount around. Listle did likewise with her dapple gray.
Both stared as a huge knight mounted on a coal-black charger thundered into the square.
The knight was clad in armor of purest jet, the oval of his shield as dark as a starless sky. His face was concealed by a visor, two crimson points of light glowing hungrily behind the narrow eye slit. Instead of a feathered plume, a gout of livid scarlet flame flickered atop the black knight's helm. The dark rider's onyx charger snorted crimson fire, and sulfurous smoke blasted out of flaring nostrils. Brilliant sparks flew from hooves that shattered cobblestones with every stride.
The black knight