The man snorted. "Selfish child." He laughed deeply. "You're my daughter, all right."

"Whether you like it or not," Daile answered. She gathered their possessions into a leather pack, then slung the pack over a shoulder. She and Ren often went out on all-day sojourns through the woodland and heath of the Valley of the Falls. It gave her a chance to practice her forest skills. And though her father never said so, she knew these wanderings also gave him the opportunity to tramp and explore the land he loved.

"Let's head home," she said, plunging into a grove of ghost-pale aspens. "I'll make supper."

"What are you cooking tonight?" Ren asked.

"Orc stew."

He made a gagging sound. "You're joking."

Daile didn't answer.

"Please say you're joking, Daile." His voice was a trifle desperate this time.

Daile only a hummed a cheerful ditty, deftly picking her way along a faint forest trail that would have been invisible to an untrained eye. All Ren could do was shake his head and follow, grumbling under his breath something about where he must have gone wrong rearing his troublesome daughter.

Leading the way up the forested slope, Daile emerged from the autumn-colored forest, finding herself on the high, rocky crest of granite that Ren affectionately dubbed Dead Orc Ridge. The ridge bounded the west side of the Valley of the Falls, the valley that had been Daile's home for all eighteen years of her life. She paused, surveying the patchwork of forest and glade below. The valley was a deep, steep-sided bowl, carved long ago out of the rock by a glacier. Running through the valley's center was the narrow gorge where Daile liked to practice her archery skills. The stream had its source in a waterfall that tumbled down a sheer, thousand-foot cliff at the valley's north end.

Daile cocked her head. Even now she could hear the ceaseless roar of the waterfall, though soon its voice would be silenced by the freezing breath of winter. Not that Daile minded. Winter might give her and her father the chance to do some ice-climbing, making their way up the frozen falls with naught but two ice picks, some iron pitons, and a rope. If she could coax her father along on such an adventure, that is.

"I was beginning to think I'd lost you," she said cheerily, as Ren finally appeared out of the woods, scrambling up the scree to the ridgetop, his chest heaving. He was sweating despite the cold air sharp with the scent of snow.

"You know, you're really not as amusing as you think you are, Daile," Ren observed acidly. He sank to a boulder and accepted the leather waterskin his daughter handed him. "Just wait until old age creeps up on you. I imagine you won't find life quite so funny."

Daile frowned, chewing her lip. These last two years she had noticed a gradual, disturbing change in Ren. And it wasn't that his hair was a little grayer or that he was more cantankerous because his joints were stiff in the morning. After all, he had been gray and cantankerous for years. It was as if, one day, he had suddenly decided that he was old. Once he did, all of the aches and pains that had never bothered him before suddenly combined to slow him down. Unfortunately, Daile could guess at the reason for the shift in her father's outlook. The change had begun not long after the two of them had laid a beautiful, pale-haired druidess within a cairn of cold gray stone beside the waterfall.

"You're not all that old, Father," Daile said firmly.

"It's not polite to argue with your elders, young lady," Ren countered. But he laughed then, his old, devilish laugh, and Daile couldn't help but join in. He held out a hand, and she pulled him up off the rock with a grunt. Then the two began picking their way swiftly across the jagged top of Dead Orc Ridge. A league south of the waterfall they plunged back down into the forest, heading for the small clearing where their dwelling stood.

Ren took the lead now. They were nearly home when a faint sound brought Daile to a halt. She scanned the shadows among the towering spruces and lodgepole pines. Some instinct made her unsling her bow. Quietly but swiftly, she nocked an arrow.

Something stirred in the dimness between the trees. She caught two brief flashes of emerald. Eyes. Something was stalking them, drawing closer. Holding her breath, she raised the bow. "Seek the heart, bow," she whispered to the weapon. A faint quivering of the polished wood told her that the bow understood her words.

Suddenly, her stalker separated itself from the shadows of the forest. It was a great cat, its powerful muscles rippling under its tawny coat. Its maw was slightly open, revealing dagger-length canines, its eyes showing green fire.

Daile did not hesitate. She drew the arrow to her cheek and aimed. The animal snarled, tensing for a leap.

"No!" a voice shouted.

Just as Daile released her grip on the bowstring, a hand struck her bow, knocking the weapon aside. The arrow went wild, sinking into the trunk of a dead lodgepole with a thunk. The cat froze in reaction.

"Father, what are you doing?" she exclaimed.

"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.