Pool of Radiance (5 page)

Tarl felt a chill run up his spine as Sontag closed the circle. He felt trapped, though he knew that was ridiculous. He could step over the cord at any time. Or could he? For some reason, he couldn’t, but he didn’t know why. “Isn’t anyone going to tell me what’s expected of me?”

“You can ask all the questions you want once the test begins,” Anton said.

Sontag pulled two swords from the bag, a long sword and a short sword, and placed them at the edge of the circle. He did the same with two more, a broadsword and a two-handed sword, and then with two more, one a jousting sword and the other a fencing sword. They were all fine weapons of the highest quality. Tarl felt compelled to touch and lift each one. When he was through, he stepped back to the center of the circle.

All the clerics except Sontag formed a circle around the cord, then faced Tarl and stepped back three paces. Tarl watched, curiously, as they rolled up their sleeves and leggings. Was this being done to intimidate him? Tarl wondered, noting the many gruesome battle scars that marred the skin of each man.

Brother Sontag picked up his ball and chain and stood within the circle of men but still outside the cord. “Choose your weapon, Tarl,” said the old cleric. “You must kill me before you leave that circle—unless you pass the test.”

“I—I don’t want to kill you!” Tarl shouted, his voice breaking. Sontag slammed the ball inside the circle a scant two inches from Tarl’s feet. “Choose your weapon or die in the circle!”

Tarl leaped back and made a move to jump over the cord. Sontag swung again, hard and low. The chain wrapped around Tarl’s leg, and Sontag jerked back hard. Tarl slammed down on his left side, jamming his elbow on the rocky ground. Pain such as he had never known surged through his body, and Tarl cursed Tyr and all the other gods as he struggled to free his leg from the chain before Sontag could jerk it again. Tarl grappled for the pile of swords, then rose and turned on Sontag in fury as he got a firm grip on the broadsword.

“I’ll kill you!” Tarl screamed. The sword felt natural in his hand. He lunged forward and lashed out at Sontag, rage and pain guiding his movements. He felt the sword bite deep into the flesh just beneath Sontag’s breastplate. Sontag faltered for a moment, and Tarl tried once more to break out of the circle, but Sontag clipped him across his left shoulder with the ball, and Tarl fell hard inside the bounds of the cord. Hot jets of pain pulsed from his shoulder through the rest of his body, and he jumped up and lashed out wildly at Sontag. He lunged repeatedly, each time following the point of the sword with his body. Again and again Sontag dodged Tart’s thrusts or deftly deflected them aside with his weapon.

Furious, Tarl reached back to exchange his weapon for the long sword, but for some reason he couldn’t shake the broadsword from his hand. “What is this!?” Tarl shrieked. “Why can’t I change weapons?” Terrified that Sontag would take advantage of his awkward position, Tarl jerked the broadsword back into place in front of him.

But Sontag was not rushing toward him. Instead, he stood at the edge of the circle, blood seeping through the folds of his tunic, but at the ready nonetheless.

“The choice ya made was final, Tarl,” Anton’s voice boomed from behind him. “That broadsword is your weapon of choice for the test.”

“I chose nothing!” Tarl yelled in response. “Look at Brother Sontag! I didn’t want harm to come to him, but did I have a choice? I can’t even leave this bloody circle without killing him. What’s that supposed to prove?”

“Ya did have a choice, Tarl. Ya didn’t have to hurt him. The point—”

“What kind of choice was that, Brother Anton? That I could let him kill me? That I could ‘die in the circle’ as he said?” Tarl was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The sword felt alive in his hand. He wanted to lash out at Sontag again and again, to stab, to hurt him as he was hurt, to relieve the tension building inside himself. His every muscle was tensed, and he was ready to spring on the old man at any moment.

“One question at a time, lad,” Anton said quietly. “You’ll die in the circle only if ya don’t pass the test. You’ll die at Brother Sontag’s hands only if ya try to leave the circle without passin’ the test.”

Tarl tipped his head back slightly and let his shoulders drop. “I’ll die in the circle only if I don’t pass the test? I’ll die at Brother Sontag’s hands only if I try to leave the circle without passing the test? What’s that supposed to mean? And you, Anton—why are you the only one talking to me?”

“When you asked me what was expected of ya, you were choosin’ me as your tutor for the test. The others are answerin’ the questions ya haven’t asked yet with their bared arms an’ legs.”

Keeping a wary eye on Brother Sontag, Tarl glanced around at the men surrounding him. As before, he noted their many scars, but this time he saw one thing more— that each man, including Anton, bore one scar that stood out from the rest—a scar with a silver cast to it.

“As my tutor, you’ll answer any question?”

“Aye, as long as you can’t answer it yourself.”

“I think I know, Brother Anton, what I need to do to pass the test, but I’m not sure I understand. Why don’t the clerics of Tyr use swords?”

“Before the test, Brother Sontag was askin’ about the weapons you’d mastered … When can ya say you’ve mastered a weapon?”

Tarl thought for a moment, then answered Anton.

“When you are confident in the technique required to use a weapon, you’ve mastered it. That doesn’t mean you can’t improve on your technique, just that you know it. But what—”

“And are ya master of the sword?” Anton prompted.

Again Tarl reflected. He could thrust, jab, stab, slice, parry. What more techniques could be applied with a sword? And yet somehow he didn’t feel the same control he felt with the hammer or the ball and chain. He shook his head. “No, but I don’t understand why not.”

“What did you feel when you dug that blade into your teacher and fellow brother?”

The answer made Tarl sick. He looked down at the sword in his hand and then over at Brother Sontag. The older brother was standing stoically, his hand pinned to his side in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood, Tarl had come to love Sontag despite his occasional gruffness. Sontag had counseled Tarl through many of the tougher stages of his studies. And now this brother and friend was wounded, perhaps even dying, at Tarl’s own hand.

Tarl looked again at the sword. It was a weapon like any other, but it was also unlike any other. The man who wielded it was driven by it. His movements were no longer completely of his own choosing. And Tarl knew the answer to the test: No one masters a sword. The sword masters the man, and a cleric of Tyr serves no master but Tyr. But knowing the answer alone would not save him from confinement to the circle. He must do what he knew each of his brothers had done to complete the test. “The sword is not my master!” shouted Tarl, and he swung the blade of the broadsword down on his thigh. Blood pulsed from the gash, and Tarl screamed out in agony to right his own wrong. “Help… help Brother Sontag!” Tarl’s last memory was of the brothers who had been standing silent around the circle rushing to Brother Sontag’s side.

Tarl awoke to Brother Anton’s voice, bellowing, “Are ya goin’ to sleep till we get to Phlan, lad? Wake up! Don’t go supposin’ that just because you’re a full-fledged cleric now there’s no chores important enough for ya!”

“By the gods, I hurt all over!” Pain pounded through Tarl’s body, from his jammed elbow to the self-inflicted wound on his thigh. Every bump of the wagon sent fresh, white-hot spasms coursing through his body.

“Now, that’s gratitude! I spend the night a-patchin’ and a-prayin’, and you complain as though ya ain’t been healed.”

“No disrespect intended, Brother Anton, but if this is healed, I’m glad Tyr spared me from the hours since the test!”

Brother Sontag’s head appeared between the edge of the wagon and the curtain that shielded Tarl’s cot from the sun. Tarl struggled to a sitting position and tried to speak, to apologize, but Sontag raised a hand to silence him. “That’ll be enough bellyaching, Brother Tarl. Look at me—three times your age, and with a wound that would down a horse. Do you see me complaining? Brother Donal just spotted the poison river that leads south into Phlan. Can’t afford to have a strong young cleric like you in bed when we run up against the riffraff that’s rumored to inhabit this area.”

For two years, Tarl had been studying and training for the chance to serve Tyr in battle, to contribute to the establishment and expansion of a new temple. He was the only one in the group without actual battle experience. This finally was his chance to prove himself to the men who had taught him so much. Tarl threw back the bedding, stood up, and vaulted over the side of the wagon with all the exuberance of his age… and crumpled helplessly to the ground. Yesterday’s agony returned in full force as the self-inflicted wound on his leg reopened from the impact.

“You’ll be limpin’ for a lifetime if ya keep that up!” yelled Anton, and he leaped over the side of the wagon after Tarl. Anton tied a strip of cloth tight above the wound to stop the bleeding, while Brother Sontag spoke the words of a clerical spell and held his hands against Tarl’s leg. Tarl could feel the exchange of energy as Sontag’s powerful healing went to work. He watched as the tissue on either side of the gash on his leg fused slowly together. Flesh melded with flesh, covering exposed muscle, and finally the skin closed over the tissue, Tarl’s eyes gleamed with wonder as he realized there was no more pain. There was a scar, though, and Tarl saw that it shone a dull silver, just like those he had seen on his brothers. Sontag removed the tourniquet, stood up, and held a hand out to Tarl.

Tarl clasped Brother Sontag’s hand between both of his own and exclaimed, “Thank you, Brother Sontag! May I one day share your skills!”

“Your healing skills already rival that of most clerics. You will soon be my equal at healing. For now, though, go dress yourself for battle.”

“Don’t be forgettin’ your hammer, either, Brother Tarl,” said Anton.

“Brother Tarl.” The words sounded better than ever. These men truly were his brothers now.

The Stojanow River was an eyesore. Its color was an unnatural greenish black, and not a scrap of vegetation stood along its banks. Even trees a hundred paces and more from the river struggled for survival, their leaves withered and unhealthy-looking. Worse than the river’s appearance, though, was its smell. Tarl had shoveled chicken manure from the coops at the temple in Vaasa and never been so offended by smell. The acrid odor from the Stojanow burned the nostrils and lungs, and the stench of rot and decay made him want to wretch. Tarl could tell he was not the only one disturbed by the corrupted river. The horses were stamping and whinnying and threatening to bolt. Without even exchanging words, Brothers Adrian and Seriff, who were driving the wagons, turned the horses and led the party as far as they could get from the river without losing sight of it.

The going was rough but uneventful. The battles they had anticipated never came, even after several days of traveling south following the river. It was dusk of the fifth night since Tarl took the test when they spotted a high wooden fence that they took to be a part of the City of Phlan’s fortifications. In the distance, behind the fence, they could just see the pinnacles of the towers that made up the main fortress of the city. Determined to make their way into Phlan and to the temple within the city walls, they pushed their way through the rotting boards of the wooden fence. Just as the last man in the party came through the fence, a deafening clang broke out.

Anton, who was one of the first inside the walls, inadvertently stepped on and turned a large flat stone—a gravestone—and as he did, he realized that the tall grasses hid dozens more. “By the gods, there be death inside these walls!” shouted Anton. A bony hand reached up from the ground near Anton’s leg. “Get back to the grave from whence ya came!” he shouted. With a swing of his hammer, he shattered the bony hand, and immediately the skeleton burst, screaming, from the ground, its frame guarded by a shield covered with earth and worms. The sickening shriek of the undead was even worse than the clanging. Anton slammed his heavy hammer down on the skeleton’s shield full force, and the disc crashed from its hand. With another swing, Anton sent the bony frame of the undead creature splintering in a hundred directions.

More armed skeleton warriors erupted from the ground in front of the party. “The hammer!” shouted Brother Donal. “Protect it at any cost!” He shoved the sacred Hammer of Tyr at Tarl as the warrior clerics moved quickly to form a protective line in front of the youngest of their group.

“The horses!” Tarl’s shout of warning was too late. Skeletal arms were reaching up from the ground and slashing the underbellies of the terrified creatures. The animals’ death shrieks were hideous, but there was no chance to mourn for the horses as the skeleton warriors attacked with a vengeance. Swords clanked against shields and metal shattered bone as the clerics pressed forward. The sight of dozens of undead soldiers made every man’s blood run cold, but the brittle warriors stood no chance against the heavy hammers and ball and chains favored by the clerics of Tyr.

In a matter of minutes, the area was littered with bone fragments, but no man had a chance to catch his breath. Dozens more skeletons appeared, and grotesque zombies burst from the ground, their half-rotted bodies covered with maggots and dirt. Brother Sontag challenged the zombies with his holy symbol. “In the name of Tyr, begone!” A ray of pure white light shot from the holy symbol to the chest of the first of the lumbering creatures. The zombie’s rotting flesh began to smoke, then to bubble. Maggots, inflated from the intense heat, burst with the sound of popping corn. Like a cube of ice held over a fire, the zombie melted, layer by layer, until nothing was left but a puddle of slime.

The other clerics quickly raised their holy symbols against the zombies that followed. For each holy symbol, at least one zombie was turned to slime, but in their place followed even more zombies, along with some of the most frightful creatures of legend—wraiths, the ghostly mists that kill. Tarl could no longer quell his own terror. Shimmering clouds, gruesomely magnified images of giants, ogres, and other terrors closed in all around the clerics. By the dozens they came, from every corner of the graveyard. “Back, you spawn of evil!” shouted Brother Sontag, still wielding his holy symbol. “Press on, brothers! We must flee this place!”