“But he’s not a horse—” Shal began.
I’m not? Cerulean’s telepathic message interrupted Shal’s thought.
“I mean, he is a horse, but he’s more than that…. Oh, I don’t know what I mean! Could you … could you excuse us for a minute, Tarl?”
Tarl looked oddly at Shal once again and shrugged. Then he turned and headed slowly for the door, muttering all the while. “No problem, whatever, Shal. I don’t rate even so much as a ‘Good morning,’ but the horse gets a moment in private with you. That’s just fine,” he said, obviously a little confused.
As soon as Tarl closed the door, Shal turned to face her familiar. “You can’t come, Cerulean,” she insisted. “We’re taking a boat. We’ll probably have to scale walls. There’s no place to—”
No place to put me? Have you forgotten your legacy from Ranthor already? Not that I like being put in that thing, mind you. As I said before, it’s awfully dark in there. But if I’m not with you, I can’t possibly warn you of any danger, can I?
Shal threw up her hands. So much for feeling on top of things. How forgetful could she be? She pulled the Cloth of Many Pockets from her belt and held it out toward Cerulean. “So how do we go about this? For some reason I seem to have trouble picturing a great big horse like you jumping into one of these tiny little pockets.”
Just stand back and watch!
Shal opened the stall gate and backed up against the stable wall, holding out the small piece of cloth. To her horror, the giant horse began to paw the ground, then charged toward her, its ears flat against its head and its nostrils flaring. Just as she was certain she would be smashed against the wall, Cerulean reared, dived, and poured like so much liquid into one of the pockets in the cloth.
I hate doing that. I hope you can see why now. The familiar’s mental communication was muffled slightly by the cloth.
“You hate it! I’m amazed Ranthor didn’t die of a heart attack long ago! I hope your entrances into the outside world are a bit less dramatic. By the way, can you get out of there if I don’t summon you?”
You would have to ask that. Indeed I can—as long as you don’t tell me I can’t.
Shal looked down at the indigo cloth as she tucked it back into place inside her belt. She was about to reply again when she realized how foolish she must look-would look—if anyone were watching her, so she decided to try her hand at telepathy. I won’t tell you you can’t, but rest assured that if I find you in my lap at some awkward moment, you’ll be back in the dark until further notice. Understand?
Quite clear, Mistress.
And don’t sneer when you say that word! Shal knew her telepathic thought hit home when the familiar, for once, didn’t try to have the last word.
Tarl and Ren were just sitting down to breakfast with Sot when Shal came back. “Save any for me?” she asked, her appetite sparked as she entered to the smell of hot biscuits and porridge.
Sot looked on with a bemused smile as Tarl and Ren stumbled over each other to pull out a stool for Shal, but the young mage didn’t even notice. She was too worried about how to seat her much-enlarged frame down gracefully on the quaint stool. She wondered as she watched Tarl and Ren resume their seats how men could always sit down without looking awkward, no matter how big they were.
Tarl poured her a cup of milk and offered her the biscuits.
Ren leaned forward and began to speak eagerly. “Sot here says he had a grandfather who was doing guard duty at Sokol Keep during the time of the Dragon Run.”
Sot interrupted. “He was a guard there at the time, but he wasn’t on duty when the dragons struck. Otherwise, he never coulda given this to my dad.” So saying, Sot pulled a heavy bronze medallion out from beneath his shirt.
Tarl sucked in his breath as he saw the bronze piece. Quickly he plunked down the bowl of porridge he was handing to Shal, nearly spilling it, and extended his hand out toward Sot. “May I see that, please?”
“Sure.” Sot lifted the thick chain up over his head and handed the medallion across the table to Tarl.
“Do you know what this medallion is?” Tarl asked excitedly, running his fingers over its embossed surface and examining the inscriptions on either side of it.
Sot shook his head. “Why, no … I never did find out what that symbol on it stood for. It’s just somethin’ I’ve held on to since I was a kid ’cause my dad told me it was from my granddad.”
“It’s a special holy symbol of Tyr, the god I serve.” Tarl pulled out his own holy symbol and held the two up next to each other for comparison. The icon depicted on the front of each—a war hammer topped by a scale—was identical, but the runes were different. “Your grandfather must have been a cleric of Tyr. But he was in a sect that I’ve only heard about. They were said to have been very devout in their faith.”
“All I know is that my father always said Granddad was a guard at Sokol Keep. I guess I’d heard that there’d been a temple at the keep, but I never knew my grandfather was connected with it.” Sot pointed at the medallion. “Would that medal be of any use to you, seein’ as how you’re a cleric and all?”
Tarl’s heart leaped. “Absolutely! The power of my god flows through such holy symbols. They help protect the wearer.”
“Well, seein’ as how you’re the ones going off to a place that’s supposed to be overrun by ghosts an’ spirits, why don’t you take it? You can give it back to me if you—when you come back.” As he spoke, Sot reached out and folded Tarl’s hand over the medallion.
“Thank you most heartily!” Tarl said sincerely. “I’ll put this to good use.”
“Now, don’t be gettin’ mushy on me, young fella. You’ve got devils to face, and the town guards’ll be throwin’ you to ’em if you don’t get a move on. You’d all best be goin’ before they have to come for you.” Sot shooed the three out the door and called out to wish them luck as they started down the street.
Driven by nervous energy, the three quickly made their way to the city’s docks. The shoreline was crowded with vendors selling wares from incoming shipments, and the docks were lined with boats and small ships. The water of the Moonsea and the southeastern edge of the Bay of Phlan was a brilliant tourmaline blue. To the east, the waters of the Stojanow belched into the bay, spreading their putrid stench into the bright, clear water.
No one had to tell the three where Thorn Island was. It was easily visible from the shore, and they could see why merchants sailed wide to avoid it. A dark shadow hung over the small, bleak island. It was as if, as they turned their heads to scan the horizon, someone dropped a translucent black scarf over their faces just as the island came into view. Almost as ominous were the charred walls of Sokol Keep itself, which jutted up, gray and desolate-looking, from the low slate cliffs that made up the island’s shoreline.
“That councilman did say something about a reward in this for us if we bring back information that helps them to recover the island, didn’t he?” Ren asked.
“Personally, if we ever return from that place, the only reward I want is to serve Tyr,” said Tarl looking out at the blot of desolation defiling the bay.
Shal stared at the fortress with a mixture of fear and curiosity. “My master told me about such places—places enveloped in such darkness that they appear shadowed even in bright sunlight. He said it was almost always a sign that there were undead existing in torment.”
Tarl blanched at the word “undead.” He would rather face an army of orcs than another specter or wraith … or vampire. “Shal, I want you to wear this.” Tarl held out the medallion he had received from Sot. “I have my own holy symbol. I can probably protect Ren for a little while if we face any undead, but I don’t have the skills to keep them away from both of you. I don’t know how good you are at your magic, but with a holy symbol of Tyr protecting you, you should be even safer.”