Free Pool of Twilight by James M. Ward, Anne K. Brown Page A

thoughtful finger against her smooth jaw. “Very well, Sigh.”
    She laughed then, a rich, evil sound, the flecks of twilight-colored light flickering in her dancing eyes.

5
Distant Friends
    “Thieves?” Tarl asked in shock. “But how can you be sure?”
    “It was the way they handled themselves in battle that gave me the first clue,” Anton replied. The big, shaggy cleric of Tyr sat in a heavy oak chair in the main chamber of Denlor’s Tower. Shal was bandaging a ragged gash on Anton’s shoulder in her typically efficient manner. Kern and Listle sat at a nearby table, picking at some food Shal had set out for them. Neither was particularly hungry. Once the excitement of the battle had faded, Kern found the feeling replaced by exhaustion and not just a little trepidation, for the fiends had made it clear they were after him.
    “Those warriors were used to moving about unencumbered,” Anton went on. “And they were obviously accustomed to using smaller and shorter weapons. They kept trying to attack at close quarters even though they didn’t have adequate room to swing a long sword. All that points to their being members of the thieves’ guild. But what clinched it were the notched ears.”
    “Notched ears?” Tarl asked with a frown.
    “That’s right. The last guildmaster, Bercan, lost his left ear in a duel some years ago. Ever since, the thieves of Phlan have notched their left ears as a sign of loyalty.” Anton grimaced in pain as Shal deftly but firmly tightened the bandage around his shoulder. “By all the gods of light, woman, can’t you be a little gentler? I’m hurt enough as it is.”
    “Something tells me you’ll live, Anton,” Shal said dryly. He gave her a glowering look, which she returned with a laugh. She gathered her salves and bandages, and turned her attention to Kern. Fortunately, none of his wounds were as deep as the gouge in Anton’s shoulder.
    Listle spoke up. It was virtually impossible to keep the elf out of a conversation for very long anyway. “What would the thieves of Phlan want with the Hammer of Tyr, Patriarch Anton? Could they have ransomed it back to the temple for gold?”
    “Perhaps,” Anton replied with a shrug. “Or more likely they were interested in the riches that are said to be hidden with the hammer.”
    Tarl struck fist against palm. The blind cleric paced before the hearth in agitation. “There’s still something about this that bothers me. The thieves’ guild has never attacked the temple before, let alone in broad daylight. And posing as warriors is very unusual. What could have made them do it? There’s something else to this mystery.”
    “Fiends.” Shal looked up from her work, a grim light in her emerald eyes. “Since when have thieves been able to summon fiends from the Nine Hells?”
    Anton stood. “Since never,” he growled.
    “Then it might be interesting to know who summoned them,” Shal mused. “If we answer that question, I think we’ll find out who it is that so desperately wants the hammer. And the Hammerseeker.” She frowned disapprovingly at her son as the salve she had smeared across one of his cuts turned into a puff of sticky blue cobwebs. “I told you to concentrate on keeping your wall of resistance down, Kern,” she said sternly. “The salves won’t work if you can’t control your unmagic for at least a few seconds.”
    “Sorry.” Kern’s expression was sheepish. “I don’t know why, but it keeps getting harder.”
    Shal studied him for a long moment. “It’s most likely the aftereffect of the battle,” she decided. “The more danger you’re in, the stronger your unmagic is likely to get.” She set down the jar of magical salve, reaching for a cloth soaked in warm water laced with willow bark. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to heal naturally this time.”
    “You’d better get used to battle, Kern,” Anton warned the young man gravely. “I have little doubt that this was only the first in a