James Ward - Pool of Twilight

Trooper grunted. "Too bad he doesn't have such a good command of his heart."

"What?" Kern asked.

Trooper turned on him. "Your heart boy! Heart! You know, that thing that squeezes blood around inside your rib cage." He thumped his chest for emphasis.

"I know what a heart is," Kern said in exasperation.

"Well, I suppose that's something," Trooper said with a fierce grin. "But do you know how to use it? Do you know how to make it your strongest weapon in battle?" His grin faded. "Ah, but I suppose you're not interested in anything an old man like me could teach you."

Kern leaped to his feet, gripping his hammer. "Show me," he said intently.

Trooper laughed. "That's more like it, lad." He stood, his broadsword gleaming in the firelight. "Now, swing that hammer at me. Go on! Don't be shy about it."

Kern hesitated for a heartbeat, then swung. Trooper easily parried the blow with a swipe of his rune sword. Both weapons glowed with blue light as they met.

"No, lad," Trooper growled. "You're swinging with your hands, not your heart. You can bash in a few orc skulls that way, but your arms may fail you when you're facing a foe that's stronger than you. Your heart is the only weapon you can count on in a crisis." He circled around the campfire, sword ready. "Now, have a go at me again, only this time let your heart guide your hammer."

Kern grunted as he brought the warhammer around. He tried to do as Trooper had instructed, but he wasn't quite sure what the old man meant. How could he guide the hammer with his heart?

Blue fire flashed as the hammer bounced off Trooper's rune sword.

"No, lad, try again! Don't hit me with your weapon. Hit me with your courage, your spirit."

Kern nodded, gritting his teeth. He tried to concentrate. Another swing, another flash of blue light. Gods, but he wanted to show Trooper what he was truly made of!

"Feel Tyr's power flowing through you, lad." Swing, flash. Kern grunted with effort. "Fighting's more than having a good eye and a good arm." Swing, flash. Kern was sweating in rivulets. "It's having faith, lad. Faith that justice will overcome!"

For all his life, Kern would never forget that moment.

It was like a dam breaking inside him. Sudden calm washed over him; warmth flooded his chest. Instantly he forgot about trying to impress Trooper with his skill, or trying to prove his worth. None of that mattered anymore. He felt strangely buoyant. He could hardly feel the weight of the hammer. All that mattered was that he have faith in Tyr and, more importantly, himself.

Kern's hammer moved through the air. Trooper tried to parry, but proved a fraction of a second too slow. Hammer struck sword, and the blade flew out of Trooper's hands, whirling through the air.

Kern lowered his hammer, breathing hard. A grin spread across his face. Trooper nodded in approval as he retrieved his sword. "Not bad, son. Not bad at all." A sly smile curled inside his beard. "But then, next time I won't play so nicely."

Kern's grin slowly faded. Something told him he still had a great deal to learn.

"Well, it's time for an old man to get some sleep," Trooper grumbled, putting away his rune sword and pulling out his bedroll. He spread it close to the fire. "I hope you all know that you've made a complete and utter mess of my day."

"We know," Listle replied sweetly. "But you're glad that we did."

He scowled at her. "Well, I suppose I am at that," he said gruffly, and then he went to sleep.

Judging by the rising crescent of the moon, it was well after midnight when Listle woke.

She sat up and cocked her head, listening with her delicately pointed elven ears. There it was again: a voice whispering among the trees. She slipped quietly out of her blanket, noticing that Trooper's bedroll was empty. Kern was snoring, sound asleep, and Miltiades appeared deep in reverie, gazing into the last embers of the fire. Silently, so as not to disturb either, the elf padded away into the shadows of the forest.

She followed the faint whispering, and moments later peered from behind a juniper bush to see a peculiar sight.

Trooper sat on an old stump, bathed in a faint blue radiance. The old paladin seemed to be engaged in a conversation with someone, though who it might be, Listle couldn't say. She didn't see anyone else in the clearing.

"Are you really certain he's worth the trouble?" Trooper muttered, his beard bristling. "Oh, he's brave enough, and strong, too. And I'll grant you that brains have never been a paladin's primary requisite. But he doesn't have much faith in himself, you know."

The old man bent his head, as though listening to some reply. He scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. "True enough. Faith can be taught. But it isn't easy, and it takes time. A great deal of time, in fact, and that's something I really don't have too much of these days."

Trooper paused. Finally he sighed, nodding. "Well, it goes against my better judgment," he growled. "However, I'll do it if you think I should. But you owe me for this one, Tyr!"

Listle's mouth opened in a silent gasp as she hastily away. Had she heard properly?

"That's ridiculous, Listle," she whispered to herself as she slipped soundlessly through the trees. "He couldn't have been talking to… to a…"

Shivering, she left that thought unfinished as she hurried back to camp.

Tarl stood on a balcony high in the temple of Tyr, breathing the wintry air. He turned his gaze out over where he knew the city lay, though all his eyes saw was perpetual darkness. Twilight had fallen, he knew, for he could no longer feel the faint warmth of the sun on his face. But he welcomed the numbing cold of night.

There had been no news of Kern or the others in the last days. No omen that might hint whether his son was alive or dead. Nothing. Anton said again and again that they must have faith, but Tarl found faith to be slight comfort. Faith could not whisk his son to his side. Faith could not heal Shal, who lay slowly, inexorably dying in her chamber.

Perhaps he would not feel so bad, Tarl thought, if there were anything he could do. Anything. But he was powerless. Nothing he did could wake Shal from her endless slumber or drive the shadows from her face. Nothing he could do would help Kern on his quest for the hammer. He couldn't even be of much help to his fellow clerics, who scurried about the temple like frightened mice, trying to fortify the structure against the dark onslaught Sister Sendara had foretold. Though he had tried to provide some assistance, he had only gotten in the way.

Tarl gripped the balustrade with white-knuckled hands. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for an end-some end-to come.

Finally, even the cold of the night was too much for him to bear. It was time to go back inside, to sit by Shal's side.

Yet as Tarl started to step away from the balustrade, he saw something that made him hesitate. Something that moved in the veil of darkness.

He frowned. There it was again-a small splotch that was a deeper jet against the blackness of his vision. He blinked, wondering if this was some figment of his imagination. But no, even as he watched, the spot grew, like a far-off object edging closer.

"This cannot be," Tarl whispered as the dark blob grew larger yet. "How can I see something unless it is…"

Realization washed over him.

Magic!

Whatever was approaching the temple was magical in nature. As he had learned these last years, magic was one thing his otherwise useless eyes could discern. But what was the magical shape?

Tarl leaned forward, concentrating on the dark cloud. As it neared, he realized that it was composed of dozens of smaller objects, each surrounded by a faint crimson aura. As the swarm of objects drew closer, the shapes became clearer with each passing second.