"Quiet, Daile."
She shook her head in confusion. Was Ren trying to get them killed? To her astonishment, her father walked right up to the ferocious feline.
'This is crazy," Daile grumbled. She nocked another arrow, ready to slay the animal if it made a move. Then Ren did something that almost made her drop the weapon.
"It's been a long time, Gamaliel." He spoke softly to the great cat
The cat seemed to nod in reply. A shimmering radiance appeared around the animal. Its tawny fur began to undulate, and suddenly the cat was gone. In its place stood a tall barbarian man clad in fringed leather, a broadsword at his hip. But his eyes were the same emerald green as the cat's, his hair an identical tawny gold.
The arrow slipped from Daile's fingers.
"Greetings, Ren," the man who had been a cat said in a rich, growling tenor. He turned toward Daile. "And greetings to you as well, archer." A faint smile touched the barbarian's lips. "Do not be concerned," he assured her. "I would not have allowed you to harm me with your arrows."
Ren reached out and gripped the barbarian's arms in greeting. "I'd like to think you're paying me a visit because you've missed me, Gamaliel, but I have a feeling that I'd be deluding myself."
"Perhaps, ranger," the barbarian replied, his expression unreadable.
Daile could stand it no longer. "Father, what in the world is going on?"
"I trust Gamaliel here is going to tell us."
The barbarian nodded, his chiseled face solemn. "Evaine bid me to find you, Ren. She has learned of another pool." His eyes flashed from bright green to deep gold. "Phlan is in grave peril."
"Again?" Ren snorted. "It must be habit-forming." The ranger eyed the sky through the overhead branches. "It's getting dark. Can we discuss this at the keep? It's a little too chilly out here for these old bones."
The barbarian looked surprised at Ren's words, but nodded. "Lead the way."
There was nothing for Daile to do but follow.
An hour later found the three of them gathered around a stout oaken table in the center of the stone-walled keep. Daile had cleared away the supper dishes and poured three steaming mugs of mulled wine. She tentatively handed a mug to Gamaliel. He accepted it with a wordless nod. She tried to smile, but the expression faltered badly.
Hurriedly she sat down and hid her face behind her own mug. The green-eyed barbarian made her dreadfully uncomfortable, mostly because she had nearly shot him with her magical bow.
Gamaliel had told them his reason for coming in short, terse sentences. The message was simple. Kern, the son of Ren's best friends, was about to set off on a quest to find the lost Hammer of Tyr. But Gamaliel's mistress, the sorceress Evaine, had learned that a mysterious, evil wizard also sought the hammer and was drawing power from a magical pool. This was not the first time Daile had heard of the dreaded pools. She knew that Ren had helped to destroy two of them many years ago.
"The pool is hidden somewhere in the Dragonspine Mountains," Gamaliel finished. The firelight played across his sharp, striking features. "Evaine has need of your knowledge and experience. You will return with me."
Ren's eyes flashed angrily. Then suddenly he let out a guffaw, slapping his knee. "You never did bandy words, Gamaliel. I don't know why I should expect you to now."
Daile held her breath, watching the two men closely. She knew from stories that Ren and the barbarian had not cared for each other at their first meeting. But over the years, their mutual respect had drawn them into a grudging sort of friendship.
"All right," Ren grumbled. "Winter's coming on, and the gods know I'd rather spend it drinking ale by a fire than traipsing about the countryside. But I'll go if Evaine needs me."
Daile's spirit soared, but she did her best to contain her excitement. If she played her cards right, maybe, just maybe, her father would let her come along on this promising adventure.
"Good," was Gamaliel's only reply. He drained his mug of wine. The barbarian looked around the small, tidy room then. "Tell me, Ren. Where is the druidess, Ciela?"
Ren stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. "I've got to chop some more wood for the fire," he murmured, as if he had not heard the barbarian's question. He headed out into the cold, moonlit night.
Gamaliel watched him go, then turned to regard Daile. "Have I said something wrong?"
Daile stood to ladle more mulled wine for the barbarian. "You couldn't have known," she said sadly, sitting back down. "My mother-Ciela-died two winters ago." She looked around the keep. Everywhere there were still signs of the gentle druid woman: a chair she had fashioned of willow branches magically wended together, a wreath of holly that stayed perpetually green hanging above the mantel, a beautifully polished walking staff she had always taken with her on her long walks through the forest. Daile hung her head, her short red-gold hair shining in the firelight. She wondered that her mother's death could hurt so much after all this time.
"You miss her," Gamaliel said in his oddly matter-of-fact voice. "That is well."
"How so?" Daile found herself asking.
"It means that she was worth knowing."
Daile felt her heart strangely buoyed by Gamaliel's simple words. She smiled at him gratefully.
Abruptly the iron-banded door swung open, and Ren stepped through. He wasn't carrying any firewood, but Daile chose not to mention this obvious fact. "Be ready to leave at dawn," Ren told Gamaliel gruffly. "And Daile…"
She sighed. "I know, Father. I'll repair the chinks in the walls while you're away."
"Oh, really?" Ren stroked his beard with a mischievous expression. "Well, all right, Daile, if you really want to. Of course, I was hoping you'd come with me on this particular journey, but I do know how much you enjoy patching the walls with mud."
Daile's heart leaped. She couldn't believe her good fortune.
She let out a whoop of joy and sprang up to give her father a hug. "I love you!" she exclaimed, kissing his bearded cheek for emphasis.
Ren grinned at Gamaliel. "Sometimes having a daughter is almost worth the trouble."
"So it seems," the barbarian observed.
8
It was verging on dusk when Kern and Listle rode through the unguarded Death Gates and into the dank, murky streets of the city. The fog and rain did nothing to conceal Phlan's decay. If anything, the dreary elements emphasized the squalor and filth. The cold rain was gritty and acrid with soot, streaking all the city's buildings with dark, leprous stains. It was hard to tell which of the heaps in the gutters were piles of refuse and which were bloated, rat-gnawed corpses. All smelled vile. The loud rain did nothing to mask the curses, screams, and wicked laughter that drifted down from dimly lit windows.
Kern's spirits, so high after gaining the enchanted silver and steel warhammer, instantly plummeted. Even if he did manage to recover the Hammer of Tyr, he wondered if he could do it in time to save the fast deteriorating city.
The young warrior and elf rode into a desolate square. Once the marble fountain in its center had bubbled with clear, sweet water. Now black sludge oozed from the urn clasped by a stone cherub. The liquid gurgled sickeningly into the fountain's half-full basin. So much for watering the horses here, Kern thought glumly. He swung his palfrey in the direction of Denlor's Tower.
Pounding hoofbeats shattered the air.
Wide-eyed, Kern whirled his mount around. Listle did likewise with her dapple gray.
Both stared as a huge knight mounted on a coal-black charger thundered into the square.