Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [7]
Kern shuddered at the thought.
"We can't blame the people of Phlan for being led astray, Listle," Tarl said reprovingly. "It isn't their fault. The influence of dark magic is everywhere now. I can feel it in my heart like a great black weight. Without the hammer, the clerics of Tyr no longer have the power to protect the people from evil or to banish the darkness from the city. But we should not despair. There are still a few folk in the city who seek the light and ask for the blessing of Tyr. Let us just hope that Patriarch Anton and the others have not solved Bane's riddle too late. If the Hammer of Tyr can be found, the city might yet be saved."
Looking at the grim scene around him, Kern was not so sure. He kept his free hand on the frayed leather grip of his battlehammer as they pressed on.
"By the way, Kern," Tarl continued, "don't let me forget to tell Patriarch Anton about this trait of yours, this unmagic as your mother calls it. I confess, I often wondered why I was never able to catch the slightest glimpse of you, even after placing that enchantment on your armor. Now it appears I have an explanation."
Despite his blindness, Tarl had the peculiar ability to "see" magic. It was a talent that had developed gradually over the last several years. At first, Tarl had only been able to detect a faint glow each time Shal cast a spell near him. Eventually, he began to see magical auras as glowing clouds of light. Now his talent had grown to the point where he could not only detect all sorts of magical energies, he could discern their true natures as well.
So, Kern realized with a start, because of his magical resistance he would always remain invisible to his father. That saddened the young paladin. He gripped Tarl's arm more tightly.
A sly look touched the cleric's face then. "Listle, of course, glows with such a brilliant silver color that I can hardly bear to look at her sometimes. Though the hue is exceedingly lovely, of course."
"Why thank you, Tarl," Listle replied, positively beaming. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."
The trio passed an unsavory-looking tavern, a place by the cheery name of The Bloated Corpse, if Kern read the peeling, weatherworn sign correctly. Raucous laughter drifted through the portal, along with the stench of cheap ale and blood.
"Next time, dog, if you can't pay with gold, you can pay with your ears instead!" a coarse voice bellowed from inside the place.
Abruptly a small, scroungy man came flying out of the doorway, landing in a heap right at Kern's feet. The young warrior nearly fell backward in an effort not to collide with him. Kern recovered his balance, then reached down to help the man, a mangy, cross-eyed fellow with a face like a rat's, to his feet. He gazed at Kern with an expression of abject terror.
"Are you all right?" Kern asked him.
"By all the bloody gods of darkness, leave me be!" the scrawny man squealed. He squirmed from Kern's grip and dashed away, disappearing down a side alley.
Kern stared in shock. He had never before heard the gods of evil invoked in Phlan.
"Pleasant fellow," Listle noted dryly.
Kern shook his head. "I was only trying to help."
"You can't help him," spoke a husky voice. Kern spun in surprise to see a barmaid leaning against the tavern's doorway. "He sold himself to the gods of evil a long time ago," the woman went on with a hoarse, throaty laugh. "Now he has nothing left to sell to pay off his gambling debts." The barmaid might have been pretty once, but her weary face was smeared with dirt, and the grimy bodice of the ragged gray dress she wore had slipped disconcertingly low.
"I'm sorry," was all Kern could think to say.
The woman eyed him calculatingly. "Well, if you're so interested in helping someone,"