Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [91]
He scowled at her. "Well, I suppose I am at that," he said gruffly, and then he went to sleep.
* * * * *
Judging by the rising crescent of the moon, it was well after midnight when Listle woke.
She sat up and cocked her head, listening with her delicately pointed elven ears. There it was again: a voice whispering among the trees. She slipped quietly out of her blanket, noticing that Trooper's bedroll was empty. Kern was snoring, sound asleep, and Miltiades appeared deep in reverie, gazing into the last embers of the fire. Silently, so as not to disturb either, the elf padded away into the shadows of the forest.
She followed the faint whispering, and moments later peered from behind a juniper bush to see a peculiar sight.
Trooper sat on an old stump, bathed in a faint blue radiance. The old paladin seemed to be engaged in a conversation with someone, though who it might be, Listle couldn't say. She didn't see anyone else in the clearing.
"Are you really certain he's worth the trouble?" Trooper muttered, his beard bristling. "Oh, he's brave enough, and strong, too. And I'll grant you that brains have never been a paladin's primary requisite. But he doesn't have much faith in himself, you know."
The old man bent his head, as though listening to some reply. He scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. "True enough. Faith can be taught. But it isn't easy, and it takes time. A great deal of time, in fact, and that's something I really don't have too much of these days."
Trooper paused. Finally he sighed, nodding. "Well, it goes against my better judgment," he growled. "However, I'll do it if you think I should. But you owe me for this one, Tyr!"
Listle's mouth opened in a silent gasp as she hastily away. Had she heard properly?
"That's ridiculous, Listle," she whispered to herself as she slipped soundlessly through the trees. "He couldn't have been talking to… to a…"
Shivering, she left that thought unfinished as she hurried back to camp.
15
Shadows of Midnight
Tarl stood on a balcony high in the temple of Tyr, breathing the wintry air. He turned his gaze out over where he knew the city lay, though all his eyes saw was perpetual darkness. Twilight had fallen, he knew, for he could no longer feel the faint warmth of the sun on his face. But he welcomed the numbing cold of night.
There had been no news of Kern or the others in the last days. No omen that might hint whether his son was alive or dead. Nothing. Anton said again and again that they must have faith, but Tarl found faith to be slight comfort. Faith could not whisk his son to his side. Faith could not heal Shal, who lay slowly, inexorably dying in her chamber.
Perhaps he would not feel so bad, Tarl thought, if there were anything he could do. Anything. But he was powerless. Nothing he did could wake Shal from her endless slumber or drive the shadows from her face. Nothing he could do would help Kern on his quest for the hammer. He couldn't even be of much help to his fellow clerics, who scurried about the temple like frightened mice, trying to fortify the structure against the dark onslaught Sister Sendara had foretold. Though he had tried to provide some assistance, he had only gotten in the way.
Tarl gripped the balustrade with white-knuckled hands. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for an end-some end-to come.
Finally, even the cold of the night was too much for him to bear. It was time to go back inside, to sit by Shal's side.
Yet as Tarl started to step away from the balustrade, he saw something that made him hesitate. Something that moved in the veil of darkness.
He frowned. There it was again-a small splotch that was a deeper jet against the blackness of his vision. He blinked, wondering if this was some figment of his imagination. But no, even as he watched, the spot grew, like a far-off object edging closer.
"This cannot be," Tarl whispered as the dark blob grew larger yet. "How can I see something unless it is…"
Realization washed over him.
Magic!
Whatever was approaching the temple was magical in nature. As he had learned these last