Pool of Twilight - James M. Ward [93]
Sister Corenna cried out as one of the fiends slashed at her back. Its head burst apart a moment later, crushed by Anton's hammer.
A third fiend lifted Brother Dameron bodily and hurled him through the air. The rotund cleric struck a marble column. He slumped to the floor and did not rise again.
The fiend whirled, its dark wings beating in agitation. Suddenly a hammer flashed through the air, ripping through the shadow fiend. It hissed in pain, then melted into thin air.
Sister Corenna slumped back to the floor. The hand that had thrown the hammer was drenched in blood, but her face bore a look of grim satisfaction.
"Louder, clerics of Tyr!" Tarl yelled as the shadow fiends fought the protective blue nimbus with their dark magic. The fiends surged forward as the holy light flickered. Then Tarl added his deep baritone to the combined voices of his brethren. The nimbus glowed with renewed energy, and a half-dozen more shadow fiends shrieked as they were consumed by brilliant flame.
So it went for the remainder of the long, dark night.
At times the voices of the clerics grew hoarse, their chanting faltered, and the shadow fiends nearly penetrated through the temple's protective barrier. But time and time again, Tarl's voice rang out above the others, and in his example the other clerics found a reservoir of strength in their hearts. They chanted on.
Then came the first golden rays of dawn.
The shadow fiends writhed in torment as the light of the sun transfixed them, piercing them with its burning rays. They shrieked vile curses as their bodies dissipated, then their screams faded into a sigh on the wind. A golden radiance filled the temple. The morning light had banished the shadows of midnight.
The temple's clerics sank to the floor, exhausted. The tide of evil had been stemmed, and all knew it was due to Tarl's strength and bravery.
"It's good to have you back, Brother Tarl," Anton said gruffly, clapping a hand on Tarl's shoulder.
Tarl smiled despite himself. You were right, as always, Shal, he said inwardly, hoping that, somehow, she could hear him.
"Do not rejoice overmuch, clerics of Tyr!" a cracked voice called out, casting a pall of silence over the hall. The ancient priestess, Sister Sendara, hobbled into the room, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff.
"You have defeated a great evil this night, it is true," the priestess proclaimed. "But know that this battle was but the first drop of rain in the dark storm that is to sweep over us. Know this, and be ready!" With that the ancient priestess retreated back into her chamber.
A somber quiet filled the hall along with the morning sunlight.
* * * * *
"Close your eyes, Kern." Trooper's voice was a low murmur in his ear. "Open your heart and listen to the wind."
Kern squeezed his eyes shut, doing his best to obey the elder paladin's words. The travelers stood in the middle of a high plain, ringed on all sides by saw-toothed mountain ranges, gleaming white with snow. Wind hissed through the dry brown grass, making a beautiful yet forlorn sound.
"A palfrey is a fine riding horse," Trooper went on softly, "but a true paladin must have a steed worthy of riding into battle. A charger, Kern. Let the wind carry your call for a charger."
Kern's brow furrowed in concentration. He wasn't exactly certain how this was supposed to work. He had heard stories, of course, telling how famous paladins summoned snorting, stamping chargers to their sides with little more than wishful thoughts and prayers to Tyr. However, he had always assumed they were just that-fireside tales.
Trooper had been all too happy to correct him. The weathered paladin told how he had summoned his own dun-colored stallion, Lancer, many years before, and Miltiades had in turn recounted how he had called his first charger, long years ago. Now it was Kern's turn. He tried to imagine his message ringing out over the plains, all the way to the distant mountains. A charger,