Pool of Radiance (22 page)

“What took you so long?” Ren hissed. Tarl just shook his head. “See that double chimney?” Ren whispered, pointing. He flared his nostrils and sniffed, a look of revulsion spreading over his face. “We’re on top of their mess hall. There’s bound to be gnolls inside, so move slowly and quietly.” Taking his own advice, he slipped gently down from the roof to a small catwalk between two buildings. Like everything he was able to see from the rooftop, the catwalk was littered with rubbish. Ren helped Shal and Tarl ease their way down, and then he made his way carefully through the piles of refuse.

“If that map was accurate, one of those buildings over there should contain the bedroom we’re looking for.” Ren pointed across the littered courtyard, where three sentries were dozing with their backs against a timber frame complete with shackles and nails for holding and tormenting prisoners, of which there were none at the moment. “Gnoll justice,” Ren whispered with a sneer.

And then he saw the garden. The map had it marked “cook’s garden,” but instead of herbs and vegetables, there was only corruption and despoilment. Twisted, cracked plants, identifiable as cabbage only because of the color and vaguely overlapping leaves, sapped the soil in one corner of the garden. A tangle of brown, contorted vines, abominable mockeries of thyme and spearmint and other herbs, blighted another. Raised and trained as a ranger, Ren admired natural beauty above all else. The sight of the gnolls’ crude and intentionally vile parody of a garden caused something to snap inside of Ren. It was as though the defiled garden somehow signified the corruption that had led to Tempest’s death. What was wrong with the assassin was the same thing that was wrong with this garden, was wrong with the gnolls that planted and neglected it. Ren was filled with rage of an intensity he hadn’t known since Tempest’s death.

“Look at that!” he said, pointing, fury contorting his face, and then louder, “It’s sick! It’s sick, like everything else in this parody of a world!”

Tarl could appreciate that the garden looked strange, ugly even, and Shal recognized that all of the plants were distorted, but when Ren stalked off toward the nearest open door, they had to assume that he had seen something they didn’t. In his rage, he moved with a speed they couldn’t match.

When they slipped through the doorway behind him, Ren had already crossed the room to the other side of an elaborate set of yellow curtains. He was in the process of strangling a robed gnoll in the crook of his big right arm. With his left hand, he clasped the creature’s hyena jaws so tightly that it couldn’t even scream. At the same time, he mashed the monster’s body downward so it couldn’t flail or struggle. They watched in awe as the body quivered one last time, and Ren silently lowered it to the floor.

Before they had time to react, Ren had passed between two incense stands and through a second yellow curtain and was slitting the throat of another one of the gangling hyena-men. As with the first, he muzzled it, then forced it to the floor so it made less sound in death than it had in life. Shal and Tarl stood dumbstruck. Having no idea what had caused such rage to possess their companion, they followed mutely and watched as he passed through yet another yellow curtain and dispatched a third robed gnoll in a similar fashion.

It wasn’t until Ren had slipped through the fourth curtain that he finally stopped short, and so did Tarl and Shal when they entered the cavernous golden room. Four more robed gnollish priests were kneeling before the dais of a shrine. A fifth, more elaborately attired, stood behind the shrine grunting an incantation over and over, which Ren realized was the same he had heard at Sokol Keep: “Power to the pool! Power to the pool!”

When the fifth figure, who was apparently the head priest, first saw the three, he stood stock-still for a moment, uncomprehending. Then he let out a squeal of warning to the others. The four scrambled to their feet and turned with surprising alacrity for creatures of their awkward proportions. Each produced a short, contorted staff, almost like a cudgel. Their faces were strangely pinched and yellow, almost jaundiced-looking. But their yellow eyes gleamed with fervor, and they charged forward with the conviction of religious fanatics, snorting monosyllabic gnollish equivalents of words like “infidel” and “heretic.”

The burst of crazed anger that had propelled Ren past the first three gnolls was spent as quickly as it had come, but as the snarling, slavering gnolls pressed closer, it returned. Ren rushed the nearest attacker, both short swords drawn. Confronted with a form of worship more corrupt than any he had imagined possible, Tarl responded with a pent-up rage of his own, meeting the swinging club of one gnoll with his shield and slamming another with the broad side of the hammer he had recovered from Sokol Keep.

Shal shared neither man’s sense of purpose. She called for her staff out of fear and used it only when the fourth gnoll crashed through the melee and toward her. Hell-bent on claiming the life of an infidel, the gangling creature charged forward, oblivious to Shal’s extended staff. Even after it impaled itself, it continued to press forward, jaws snapping, club flailing, a yellow glaze burning in its eyes. It wasn’t until the gnoll had pushed forward almost the length of the staff, its entrails pushing out behind it, that it finally jerked in the spasms of death. Shal had never once even moved. Slowly the gnoll’s dead weight pulled the staff to the ground, and the monster started to slide back down the length of the staff. Shal dropped to her knees and covered her mouth to keep from gagging. Only when she heard Ren’s voice saying something in the guttural language of the humanoids did she collect the wherewithal to pull her staff from the body of the dead gnoll.

The three other priests lay dead not far away. Tarl was holding the high priest in a hammerlock while Ren asked it questions. Shal stepped past the bodies and walked numbly toward the shrine. An upside-down T shape, the altar stood a little taller than waist-high. Its mahogany surface was polished to a sheen that struck Shal as highly unusual among the disgustingly dirty gnolls. At the crux of the T was a rounded gray mound. On either side of the altar stood embossed silver chalices, the work of dwarves, if Shal was any judge, but they were dark with rust and somehow corrupt in appearance. At first Shal couldn’t grasp what made such carefully and ornately ornamented pieces seem repugnant, but as she came closer to one of them, she realized what was wrong. Its surface was covered with the contorted faces of the benevolent gods. The faces were those of the same gods carved in relief on Shal’s Staff of Power, but like everything else in the gnoll village, they represented a grotesque permutation of what was natural and beautiful. In a subtly gruesome way, the chalice made a mockery of the staff Shal carried and of everything that was good in the Realms.

She started to reach forward to dash the hideous piece and its companion to the floor, but then she stopped short. The dreadful stink of rancid meat bit into her nostrils before she could lay a hand on the chalice. Mixed with it was the sickening sweet smell of blood, and she saw now, with shock, that the gray lump she had seen earlier was actually the days-old head of a human being, its skin livid and its eyes bulging as if from strangulation. The body stretched out behind it, excoriated as if from repeated blows with some heavy, abrasive object.

Shal slapped one hand to her mouth and drew the other tight against her abdomen to stave off the new wave of nausea that gripped her. Through clenched teeth, she stifled what would otherwise have been an earsplitting scream of horror and revulsion. Unconsciously she tipped her head back, as if that would clear her nose of the fetid stench. When it didn’t help, she lurched forward wildly, slamming the gore-filled chalice nearest to her with the back of her hand and coming back deftly with her forehand to smash the other one. Blood splattered everywhere as the two chalices rocketed end-over-end into the golden walls on either side of the great room.

The captured priest shrieked hysterically and struggled in vain to free himself from Tarl’s viselike grip. “No blood, no power! No blood, no power!” Again and again he repeated the pained cry, failing to stop even when Ren backhanded him hard against his hyena jaws.

“Animal!” Shal screamed, her rage driving her voice to a level loud enough to be heard over the shrieking gnoll.

“Animal!” she shouted once more, moving deliberately around the altar, her large hands outstretched toward the creature’s throat.

“No! Stop!” Tarl pushed the gnoll to the floor with one hand and held out the other to stop Shal. “He’s an abomination, and deserves to die, but we must not kill him.”

Shal screamed through her teeth again, then dropped to her knees and pointed up at the altar. When Tarl saw what he had not seen before, he began to pummel the groveling gnoll with his fists. Despite his outrage, he shouted: “We must not kill him! Not yet!”

“That’s right, Tarl…not yet,” Ren said, getting a hold on the gnoll and pushing Tarl gently away. “Both of you, take a few minutes to compose yourselves. I’ll take care of him.”

Tarl dropped down beside Shal and slipped an arm around her. Together they knelt, sobbing fearlessly as they stared at the appalling wreckage of a human being that lay on the altar before them. Tarl uttered a prayer to Tyr to put the unknown soul to rest.

Just then a piercing voice penetrated Shal’s consciousness. A cloth would cover the poor soul’s eyes, Mistress.

Yes, it would. Thank you, Shal thought silently. She called forth a cloth from her Cloth of Many Pockets, then covered the head and body beneath its rich violet folds, Tarl murmured one last prayer and stood beside her.

“Look there,” said Shal, pointing. Beyond the body, at the foot of the T-shaped altar, was a painstakingly detailed diorama of a scene so lifelike that Shal thought if she blinked she might become part of it. A sculpted wall of golden stone rose up like a backdrop for the scene, making it clear that the diorama’s setting was a cave, a mammoth cave with an airy, vaulted ceiling. A perfectly crescent-shaped pool, with waters that reflected off polished surfaces, was the focal point of the miniature scene. Centered along the inside curve of the crescent was an elegantly simple, raised hexagon, with tiny blue gems glittering from four of its six points. The hexagon looked pitiful and incomplete, like a once-magnificent broach with only empty sockets where gemstones should be. Though no more than two fingers wide, the hexagon, with its two missing gems, detracted from the perfection of the entire scene. Perhaps it was Shal’s imagination, but the glistening golden waters of the crescent even seemed at their darkest near the six-sided mounting.

Centered along the outside curve of the crescent was a tiny replica of the T-shaped altar. On it was a minute fountain that was spewing blood-red fluid into the pool. Where the dark fluid hit the golden waters, the pool should have been ocher or orange, but instead it radiated a staggeringly brilliant yellow gold. Like staring into the sun, it caused pain merely to look upon it.

“The focus of the shrine,” said Tarl, explaining the diorama. “It’s a replica of a sacred place—or at least a place sacred to the gnolls.”

” ‘The Pool of Radiance,’ this guy calls it,” said Ren, moving closer to the altar, the yellow-faced gnoll still in the crook of his elbow. “He says they have to keep up a steady supply of sacrifices to keep the pool yellow and the Lord of the Ruins happy.”

“Sacrifices? This is worse than a sacrifice,” said Shal, pointing at the body that lay under the purple cloth.

“I’m afraid that’s probably the gnoll version of a pretty gruesome practice,” said Ren. “I don’t have any love for orcs or kobolds, but if they have similar altars, you’ll find equally dead bodies but less gruesome.”

Tarl’s face paled visibly, and his hands clutched the edge of the wooden altar. His usually clear, deep voice tremored noticeably as he spoke. “You don’t mean to suggest there are more altars like this? More of these sites of abomination?”

“I’m sorry,” said Ren. “But this priest says it was all done for the Lord of the Ruins. As I understand it, all the creatures in the uncivilized parts of the city worship him.”

“Worship?” Tarl spat and shook his hands as if to shake off some clinging coat of slime. “Worship a creature that is not of the gods? A creature that demands blood sacrifices? What powers does this abominable beast possess that it can demand such horrors?”

8

Half-Gnoll

“You’re the priest. You tell us.” Ren waved his free hand toward the altar, clamped the gnoll’s neck a little tighter, and began to question the creature again. The gnoll was obviously responding to Ren’s questions, but Shal and Tarl could only look on, uncomprehending.

“He says there’s temples like this everywhere the Lord of the Ruins’ power reigns. He says the pool makes him feel strong.”

Ren paused as the gnoll grunted and continued with its explanation.

“What was that? Why you—!” Ren slammed the top of the gnoll’s head with his free hand.

“What?” Tarl and Shal reacted in unison.

“The filthy piece of dog meat said we’d all become sacrifices to the pool.”

“I can’t stomach any more of this,” Tarl said firmly. “As I serve Tyr, let this be the first of many such temples to be destroyed by my hand.” Without waiting for the others to join him, Tarl raised his hammer up next to the diorama. The heavy end slammed powerfully into the crescent-shaped pool, sending a shower of gold droplets in all directions.

“Acid!” screamed Tarl, and he shook his hammer-hand where the flesh was searing from the contact with the drops.

Ren and Shal had leaped back instinctively as Tarl’s hammer came down. Mere inches from where they stood, shimmering acid was burning through every piece of wood and cloth it hit. Where the acid landed on stone, it was sizzling and spattering like water in hot grease.

Shal quickly summoned forth a skin of water from the Cloth of Many Pockets and poured it generously over Tarl’s right hand, which was already raw in two places, and then over his hair, which was smoking where a drop had landed.

Enraged, fury and agony blending in his screams, Tarl lashed out again and again at the blasphemous altar, hammering with all his might until the lower end splintered and collapsed. Still he wasn’t satisfied. He dropped to his knees and pounded at the miniature fountain, the hexagon, and the rest of the diorama till only splinters and fragments remained.