Pool of Radiance by James M. Ward, Jane Cooper Hong Read Free Book Online Page A

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