James Ward: Pools of Darkness

Ren looked over his shoulder to see fifteen dwarves, all that remained of the forty that had entered the fray.

The speaker was the biggest and strongest of the lot, but obviously battle-weary. In one hand he held a shield too large for his short frame, and in the other hand he grasped a hill giant's spiked club. Even Ren would have struggled to wield such a club. The dwarf swung the weapon in his hand like a small mallet.

"He and his tribe stripped our mine and killed many of my people. I will have the final revenge on him. And nothing will stop me."

The tone of his voice and the fire in his eyes left no question that anyone arguing would become his enemy. Ren lowered his sword and backed away.

The dwarf began his chant. The remaining dwarves took up the song, but stayed a respectful distance away from the two opponents.

The last giant was also obviously some type of leader. The sixteen-foot-tall creature was armored from head to foot in bronze plate mail. The armor surprised Ren, since hill giants weren't normally intelligent enough to make use of anything more complicated than animal skins for clothing. It must have been made or stolen from a band of ogres or evil humans. Ren was also curious about the baton of bronze the hill giant carried.

Between the dwarf and the giant, there was no fencing, no circling, no testing each other's skills. There was only raw hatred, spawned from generations of conflict with the other's race. The dwarf threw down his shield and ran at the giant as fast as his stout legs could bear him. The hill giant tossed away his shield too and smashed at the earth with his baton. Huge sprays of mud and water flew into the air with every blow. Both foes lunged at each other with all their might. The baton sailed toward the head of the dwarf, and the dwarf's club crushed the chest of the bending giant. Both were dead before they hit the ground.

Ren shook his head over the waste of the dwarf's life. It was as if the warrior wanted to die in battle to remove the stain of being captured by an enemy. There was no logic to the sacrifice, but hatred was rarely logical.

Another gravelly voice diverted his attention. "Human, what is your name?"

"Ren o' the Blade. What are your friends doing?" he asked, watching the remaining dwarves moving slowly around the battlefield.

"We never leave a battlefield without killing any wounded enemies or those faking death. It is our way. We owe you a debt of steel and blood. Such things aren't taken lightly by my kind."

A thought came to the ranger. "If you feel you owe me a debt, I'll consider it settled if you'll take these orc totems to the human settlement of Glister. I've hidden more totems in the woods. If you'll collect them all and present them along with this charter to the council there, I'd be most grateful. You can tell them Ren has accomplished his mission. Will you do this?"

"We would do this and much more. We have heard about the ranger who kills orcs for the right to settle in the Valley of the Falls. Know this day you have become a warrior brother to all our kin. We will spread the word about you to our brethren." The dwarf bowed respectfully. Ren flushed at the honor.

For the next few hours, Ren helped the dwarves bury their dead. The orcs and giants were left to the elements. At first, Ren thought about looting the bodies of the orcs, but he knew the dwarves would view such actions as dishonorable and disgusting.

"By the gods, I'm tired," the ranger said.

"It is the weariness of battle and victory. We feel it also. But we dwarves welcome the exhaustion. It feels good because it makes us feel alive." A throaty, hoarse chuckle came from the dwarf, and Ren realized it was the first time he had ever heard one laugh.

"For all eternity, we will make sure the Valley of the Falls belongs to you and your children, Ren. On this you have the promise of the dwarves." The dwarf spoke so solemnly that the ranger couldn't doubt the sincerity of his new friends.

Ren exchanged hearty handshakes with the dwarves and mounted his war-horse. He galloped through the woods without looking back. He would return in a few weeks after finding Shal and Tarl and enjoying a long, peaceful visit. His mind told him he would find them safe and well, but his heart nagged that something was terribly wrong in the city of Phlan.

In the war-torn streets of Phlan, residents were busy with last-minute shopping and trading. Evening approached. Although night and day were artificial in the gods-forsaken cavern, the citizens knew darkness might mean a new battle at the city walls. They wisely observed a self-imposed curfew and rarely ventured out after dark.

Among the hustling villagers was a tall, white-haired man. The whiteness of his hair belied his age, but his muscled frame erased any question of his youth. He had spent the day inspecting the city walls, troops, and weapons.

He ducked into a bakery, accidentally slamming the door behind him with a bang.

"Afternoon, Tarl. You sure know how to make an entrance," chuckled a slender, elderly woman. "Usually the bell above the door is enough for us to know you're here."

Tarl smiled, embarrassed. "Sorry about that, Celie. I've got a lot on my mind lately. But I'll sleep better knowing our troops are well-equipped and morale is high. Now, do you have any tarts left to improve my morale?"

The woman behind the counter rattled off the list of her remaining baked goods. Tarl made his selections, and Celie began to load them into his basket. "You really should be heading home, Celie, while people are still on the streets. A woman your size could be carried off in a hurry by one of those fiends that attacked a few days ago." Tarl never failed to wonder how a woman who had been a baker all her life could stay so thin.

"You're my last customer, Tarl. Once you're on your way, I'm going to bolt the shutters and head for home. My cats will probably be wondering where I am." Celie added up Tarl's purchases.

Without a word, Tarl went to latch the bakery's shutters. Their stout oak wouldn't be much good against fiends or magical fire, but bolting the shutters somehow felt right amid the chaos of life in the cavern. When Tarl was finished, Celie scolded him. "Now, you know you didn't have to do that. I'd have gotten to it."

"Can't have anything happen to the best bakery on the Moonsea, now can we? And I'll be walking you home, Celie. No arguing."

Celie made a face, though she knew Tarl was right. Tarl paid for his purchases, then Celie asked if he wouldn't mind locking the back door for her. While his back was turned, she slipped a large poppyseed cake, his wife's favorite, into his basket.

They locked the shop together, then headed into the streets. Celie's home was a little out of the way, but Tarl didn't care.

As they walked, Tarl told Celie of his pleasure at the readiness of the troops. He could see the relief on her face as he described the city's condition.

"Phlan has never looked stronger. We may be stuck in some magical hole, but we're prepared for any type of battle. The priests have all been blessing buckets and buckets of arrows and crossbow bolts. They're the best thing next to magic to destroy fiends.

"The walls are solid and weren't damaged at all when we were transported here. We lost less than two dozen men and women during the first attack. Our food stores look good. I'm certain we can weather this disaster like we have the other battles that have found Phlan."

With Celie safely inside her cottage, Tarl gripped his basket and turned for home. Despite the late hour, Tarl stopped to help Celie's neighbors shutter their windows and rescue a cat trapped on a roof.

As Tarl hurried through the streets, he noticed a crowd gathered in a tiny square. Wondering what would keep these folks out in the streets at such a late hour, he approached.