Pool of Radiance

2 The Test

Two wagons bumped and jolted their way along the deeply rutted road. “Yo! Tarl!” Brother Donal called down from the head wagon. “Can you interrupt your hammer-throwing long enough to lead the horses up out of these ruts?”

“No problem, Brother Donal,” answered Tarl. The young cleric hurried ahead of the first wagon to retrieve the war hammer he had just launched at an unfortunate sapling, and then he jogged back to the lead draft horse. Tarl pulled gently but firmly on the horse’s bridle, guiding the animal to the side of the narrow roadway where the path was a little smoother. The horses pulling the second wagon followed suit, stepping into line behind the first. Tarl continued to walk just ahead of the front wagon, knowing that they would soon reach the point where they must leave the pass through the foothills of the Dragonspine Mountains and follow the legendary Stojanow River south into Phlan.

Brother Anton, who had been riding beside Brother Donal, jumped down to join Tarl. “Your practice is comin’ along well. Unless my eyes deceive me, you haven’t missed your mark in a dozen throws.”

An unabashed grin broke out on Tarl’s face, and he muttered an embarrassed thank-you as the giant of a man reached his side. Like Tarl and the other ten men journeying together to Phlan, Anton was a warrior cleric in a sect that worshiped Tyr, the Even-Handed, God of Justice and War. Anton’s weapon of choice was the throwing hammer. He could split a good-sized tree—or a good-sized man—with one well-aimed throw.

“Now, don’t go gettin’ puffed up from a word o’ praise,” said Anton sternly. “What I was wantin’ to tell you is that you’re doin’ just fine with that toy hammer of yours. Fact is, you don’t even have to think about it anymore.” The big man mimicked a limp-wristed throw—“Whoosh, thunk, bull’s-eye … every throw. It’s time now for you to learn to put your back into it, lad. Get yourself a real hammer and start practicin’ a man’s throw.”

Anton reached under his tunic and pulled from his belt a hammer that was easily twice the size of Tarl’s.

Tarl shook his head from side to side. “But that’s a smith’s hammer. It’s for fixing armor, not fighting.”

Anton stiff-armed Tarl to the ground. “Foolish whelp! Do ya think I don’t know what kind of hammer this is? Do ya think you’ll always have your choice of weapons in a fight?” Anton held the hammer down to Tarl, and when Tarl grabbed hold, Anton jerked him to his feet with an effortless tug. “You’d better get used to usin’ anything ya can get your hands on as a weapon—I don’t care if it’s a smith’s hammer or a hunk o’ wood. Now, start throwin.’ Start shatterin’ a bit of this countryside instead o’ just dentin’ it.”

Tarl stared dumbly at the hammer for a moment, feeling its weight and its awkward balance as he shifted it in his hand.

“One more thing, Tarl. I want you to make every fifth throw lyin’ on either your back or your belly. Many’s the time I had to take an enemy down after bein’ decked myself,” Anton said with a grimace of recollection.

Tarl seriously doubted that the huge Anton had ever been knocked down in battle, but his stinging backside was an effective reminder that he was in no position to argue the point. Besides, Tarl had no business even thinking about arguing with a senior brother in the order, and anyhow, he knew Anton was right. Tarl shifted the heavy hammer back and forth in his hand several times, then raised it and stepped into his first throw. The big hammer spiraled crookedly through the air and fell to the ground a good six feet short of the tree Tarl was aiming at. Tarl jogged past the lead wagon to where the hammer had landed. Anton fell in step alongside the head wagon and left Tarl to his throwing.

It had been nearly two years since Tarl’s eighteenth birthday, when he had taken his clerical vows in the Order of Tyr. He had been traveling with these eleven brothers in the faith for only eight weeks, but he believed he had learned more in that short time than he had in his previous twenty-two months at the temple in Vaasa.

Even on the road, Tarl continued to be tutored in his studies and devotionals, and the combat training was more intensive than anything to which he had previously been exposed. Brother Donal had drilled Tarl in techniques for guarding the flanks and rear when fighting with allies. Brother Sontag had taught him the use of the ball and chain, a grisly weapon almost as dangerous to use in practice as in battle. Tarl had received a nasty blow to the head in the middle of one of his own practice swings that left him with the utmost respect for Brother Sontag and his chosen weapon, and a headache as well. Even before today’s instruction, Brother Anton had worked with Tarl for many days, in his usual gruff but effective manner, drilling him on the use of the shield as both a defensive and offensive weapon.

Tarl was anxious to test his new skills in battle, and he knew his chance would come before long. He and the eleven brothers with whom he was traveling had been charged with delivering the sacred Hammer of Tyr to the newly built temple in Phlan. None of the men had ever been to Phlan before, but they had learned something of the port city’s history before setting out on their mission.

As Tarl understood it, some fifty years ago, Phlan had been completely leveled by marauding dragons. Evil creatures of all description had subsequently moved into the ruins, and it had been only in the last few years that people had regained control of a portion of the city and brought back to it some semblance of civilization. However, most of Phlan was still inhabited by chaotic, evil creatures, and the Stojanow River, which had once been the city’s lifeblood, had been mysteriously turned to a vile, stinking channel of acidic poisons.

The Temple of Tyr was the first temple to be erected in the city since its fall. The revered Hammer of Tyr would provide symbolic strength to the occupants of the temple, and would be wielded by the temple’s head cleric when the warrior clerics were ready to assist Phlan’s residents in the reclamation of even more of the city’s lost territory. Tarl and his companions were to add their strength to the existing forces of the new temple.

The thought of real action stirred something in Tarl. He yearned to earn a name for himself as a great warrior of Tyr, a powerful cleric serving the cause of good in the Realms. Tarl already had gained the respect of his teachers for his exceptional clerical abilities. But his healing powers were a gift from Tyr, not a skill he had developed through sweat and dedication. He wanted to prove his devotion to his god and the order by succeeding in battle, the true vocation of the Tyrian clerics.

As Tarl continued to practice, he envisioned all manner of foes. He took dead aim at tree-ogres, stone-orcs, and stump-kobolds. Unfortunately, the monsters seemed to be winning. Tarl focused his concentration on his next throw—aim, step, close, swing … and release. The smith’s hammer whirred as it spun end-over-end and smashed with a resounding clunk into the small boulder Tarl had targeted. It was Tarl’s third hit since he had started practicing with the awkward hammer, but the first two had only reached their mark; this one split it in two. Had the rock been a hobgoblin, its head would have been split wide open.

“One enemy dies, Tarl, but another waits! Quick, behind ya!” Anton’s voice carried over the rumble of the wagons. Knowing Anton’s intent, Tarl grabbed the hammer, dropped to the ground, rolled, and threw the weapon at a white pine nearly twenty paces from where he lay. The hammer thunked into the tree’s trunk just an inch from the ground.

“By Tyr, he’ll be hoppin’ for a day or two! Ya did some powerful damage to his foot, lad!” Anton laughed as he approached Tarl.

“Even when ya throw from the ground—no, especially when ya throw from the ground—ya still need all the momentum your body can give ya. Channel your energy so the full strength of your torso is packed behind your throw. That way your arm snaps forward with the force of a released spring, and your hammer does the damage ya need it to.” Anton took the smith’s hammer from Tarl and dropped to the ground to demonstrate. The big man moved with a speed and ease that belied his giant stature. True to his instructions, his arm snapped like a spring, sending the hammer forward with a force Tarl hadn’t realized even Anton could manage from his back. When the hammer thwacked into a nearby tree, the entire length of the trunk split, as if it had been struck by an axe.

It took all his concentration, but many tries later, Tarl felt the tightly wound tension and powerful release of the snap that Brother Anton had spoken of. Tarl’s throw missed its mark by several inches, but he knew he would never forget the technique, the feel of power in that throw. He also knew that he had been lacking that energy even when he had thrown from a standing position. He continued his practice with renewed enthusiasm all through the afternoon and into the evening, feeling a growing sense of pride and accomplishment as his hammer thrummed through the air with newfound speed and energy.

Though he was no giant like Anton, Tarl was tall—easily six feet—and strong. Nevertheless, by the time the brothers stopped for the night, Tarl’s arms, shoulders, and back ached from the repeated use of previously underworked muscles. When Brother Sontag sent him for water in the morning, Tarl could barely hoist the yoke to his shoulders. At Anton’s suggestion, Tarl heated a poultice and spread it between his shoulder blades. Anton instructed the young cleric to lie down on his bedroll, and he massaged the tarlike substance into Tarl’s back and shoulder blades with his huge hands. The medication from the poultice quickly spread a penetrating, rejuvenating warmth through his aching muscles.

“You’ve made the mistake of all young men,” Brother Sontag said, sitting down beside Tarl and Anton. Sontag was the eldest of the clerics in the group and, as such, its leader. He often had a word of advice for Tarl or even some of the other brothers. “You let a single success possess you. For a day, the hammer was your master. When you go back and practice again, you will be the master.”

“You said the same thing about the ball and chain, Brother Sontag. Do all weapons punish us before we gain mastery over them?”

“Yes, Tarl, they do—and because you understand that, I believe you are ready for the Test of the Sword.”

Anton’s face paled noticeably. “Tarl’s just a pup—barely twenty, if I can count. What’s the rush, Brother Sontag?”

Sontag waved a hand toward Anton to silence him. “How many weapons have you mastered, Tarl?” Brother Sontag stared directly into the youth’s eyes as he asked the question.

Tarl thought for a moment. He knew of the Test of the Sword—that it was the final challenge he must face before becoming a full-fledged cleric in the Order of Tyr—but the nature of the test was a secret. For all he knew, Sontag’s question could even be part of the test. Tarl sat up, squared his shoulders, and returned the elderly cleric’s piercing gaze. “I can better my use of any weapon, Brother Sontag, but you yourself have told me I have mastered the ball and chain and that I will master the hammer. I believe, then, by my feelings, that I can also say I have mastered the shield.”

“And the sword, Tarl? Have you mastered the sword?” Sontag prompted.

Tarl laughed nervously. “Of course not. The clerics of Tyr don’t carry swords. There’s no one here who can teach—”

“Wrong, Tarl. You knew that was wrong before you even spoke the words. Didn’t you wield a sword before you took your vows?”

“Sure, I used a sword,” Tarl answered self-consciously, aware that Brothers Donal, Adrian, Seriff, and the rest had gathered round to listen.

“And did you master it?” Sontag asked, his wizened eyes glittering.

“I—I guess I was pretty good. Of course, I didn’t have the kind of intensive training I’ve received from all of you with the other weapons.” Tarl was no longer looking at Brother Sontag. He felt that somehow everything he said was wrong. During the months since he’d taken his vows, he had asked more than once why clerics of Tyr couldn’t use swords. Each time the response had been silence or a gruff “You’ll know soon enough.” Swords were wonderful weapons, certainly easier to wield than any of the weapons favored by the clerics of Tyr. Tarl was deeply committed to Tyr and the order, but he had always assumed that the clerics’ refusal to use swords was some quirk of fanaticism of the type that seems to infiltrate almost any religious order.

“We all wielded swords before we joined the order, Tarl. There are men among us who could teach you proficiency with a sword, if you wanted to learn.”

“I do want to learn, Brother Sontag. Swords are fine weapons. It’s a shame the warriors of Tyr don’t learn to use them.” Tarl’s heart pounded with both enthusiasm and trepidation as he launched into the argument he had rehearsed mentally a dozen times. “A man with a sword can easily disarm a man with a ball and chain, num-chucks, or a throwing hammer, just by the proper timing of his thrust. And a kill with a sword is clean. There’s no need for bludgeoning—”

Brother Sontag waved his hand at Tarl as he had at Anton a few moments earlier, then stood and walked toward the lead wagon. The clerics that were gathered round parted to let him pass. None spoke or moved to his aid, even as he returned with a large leather bag that was obviously very heavy. “Can I help you with that?” asked Tarl, dropping the poultice as he stood and held out a hand toward Sontag.

“No.” It was Anton who answered the question. “It’s Brother Sontag’s job. He’s the oldest among us.”

“What’s his job?” asked Tarl. He dropped his hand to his side and backed up several steps, feeling once again that he could say nothing right.

“To administer the test,” said Anton. “When a cleric of Tyr can’t give the test anymore, he retires.”

Sontag untied the bag and pulled out a long silver cord. “Stand still,” he said to Tarl coldly. The old cleric placed one end of the cord on the ground several feet from Tarl and then proceeded to lay it in a perfect circle around the young cleric.

Tarl felt a chill run up his spine as Sontag closed the circle. He felt trapped, though he knew that was ridiculous. He could step over the cord at any time. Or could he? For some reason, he couldn’t, but he didn’t know why. “Isn’t anyone going to tell me what’s expected of me?”

“You can ask all the questions you want once the test begins,” Anton said.

Sontag pulled two swords from the bag, a long sword and a short sword, and placed them at the edge of the circle. He did the same with two more, a broadsword and a two-handed sword, and then with two more, one a jousting sword and the other a fencing sword. They were all fine weapons of the highest quality. Tarl felt compelled to touch and lift each one. When he was through, he stepped back to the center of the circle.

All the clerics except Sontag formed a circle around the cord, then faced Tarl and stepped back three paces. Tarl watched, curiously, as they rolled up their sleeves and leggings. Was this being done to intimidate him? Tarl wondered, noting the many gruesome battle scars that marred the skin of each man.

Brother Sontag picked up his ball and chain and stood within the circle of men but still outside the cord. “Choose your weapon, Tarl,” said the old cleric. “You must kill me before you leave that circle—unless you pass the test.”

“I—I don’t want to kill you!” Tarl shouted, his voice breaking. Sontag slammed the ball inside the circle a scant two inches from Tarl’s feet. “Choose your weapon or die in the circle!”

Tarl leaped back and made a move to jump over the cord. Sontag swung again, hard and low. The chain wrapped around Tarl’s leg, and Sontag jerked back hard. Tarl slammed down on his left side, jamming his elbow on the rocky ground. Pain such as he had never known surged through his body, and Tarl cursed Tyr and all the other gods as he struggled to free his leg from the chain before Sontag could jerk it again. Tarl grappled for the pile of swords, then rose and turned on Sontag in fury as he got a firm grip on the broadsword.

“I’ll kill you!” Tarl screamed. The sword felt natural in his hand. He lunged forward and lashed out at Sontag, rage and pain guiding his movements. He felt the sword bite deep into the flesh just beneath Sontag’s breastplate. Sontag faltered for a moment, and Tarl tried once more to break out of the circle, but Sontag clipped him across his left shoulder with the ball, and Tarl fell hard inside the bounds of the cord. Hot jets of pain pulsed from his shoulder through the rest of his body, and he jumped up and lashed out wildly at Sontag. He lunged repeatedly, each time following the point of the sword with his body. Again and again Sontag dodged Tarl’s thrusts or deftly deflected them aside with his weapon.

Furious, Tarl reached back to exchange his weapon for the long sword, but for some reason he couldn’t shake the broadsword from his hand. “What is this!?” Tarl shrieked. “Why can’t I change weapons?” Terrified that Sontag would take advantage of his awkward position, Tarl jerked the broadsword back into place in front of him.

But Sontag was not rushing toward him. Instead, he stood at the edge of the circle, blood seeping through the folds of his tunic, but at the ready nonetheless.

“The choice ya made was final, Tarl,” Anton’s voice boomed from behind him. “That broadsword is your weapon of choice for the test.”

“I chose nothing!” Tarl yelled in response. “Look at Brother Sontag! I didn’t want harm to come to him, but did I have a choice? I can’t even leave this bloody circle without killing him. What’s that supposed to prove?”

“Ya did have a choice, Tarl. Ya didn’t have to hurt him. The point—”

“What kind of choice was that, Brother Anton? That I could let him kill me? That I could ‘die in the circle’ as he said?” Tarl was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The sword felt alive in his hand. He wanted to lash out at Sontag again and again, to stab, to hurt him as he was hurt, to relieve the tension building inside himself. His every muscle was tensed, and he was ready to spring on the old man at any moment.

“One question at a time, lad,” Anton said quietly. “You’ll die in the circle only if ya don’t pass the test. You’ll die at Brother Sontag’s hands only if ya try to leave the circle without passin’ the test.”

Tarl tipped his head back slightly and let his shoulders drop. “I’ll die in the circle only if I don’t pass the test? I’ll die at Brother Sontag’s hands only if I try to leave the circle without passing the test? What’s that supposed to mean? And you, Anton—why are you the only one talking to me?”

“When you asked me what was expected of ya, you were choosin’ me as your tutor for the test. The others are answerin’ the questions ya haven’t asked yet with their bared arms an’ legs.”

Keeping a wary eye on Brother Sontag, Tarl glanced around at the men surrounding him. As before, he noted their many scars, but this time he saw one thing more—that each man, including Anton, bore one scar that stood out from the rest—a scar with a silver cast to it.

“As my tutor, you’ll answer any question?”

“Aye, as long as you can’t answer it yourself.”

“I think I know, Brother Anton, what I need to do to pass the test, but I’m not sure I understand. Why don’t the clerics of Tyr use swords?”

“Before the test, Brother Sontag was askin’ about the weapons you’d mastered … When can ya say you’ve mastered a weapon?”

Tarl thought for a moment, then answered Anton. “When you are confident in the technique required to use a weapon, you’ve mastered it. That doesn’t mean you can’t improve on your technique, just that you know it. But what—”

“And are ya master of the sword?” Anton prompted.

Again Tarl reflected. He could thrust, jab, stab, slice, parry. What more techniques could be applied with a sword? And yet somehow he didn’t feel the same control he felt with the hammer or the ball and chain. He shook his head. “No, but I don’t understand why not.”

“What did you feel when you dug that blade into your teacher and fellow brother?”

The answer made Tarl sick. He looked down at the sword in his hand and then over at Brother Sontag. The older brother was standing stoically, his hand pinned to his side in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood. Tarl had come to love Sontag despite his occasional gruffness. Sontag had counseled Tarl through many of the tougher stages of his studies. And now this brother and friend was wounded, perhaps even dying, at Tarl’s own hand.

Tarl looked again at the sword. It was a weapon like any other, but it was also unlike any other. The man who wielded it was driven by it. His movements were no longer completely of his own choosing. And Tarl knew the answer to the test: No one masters a sword. The sword masters the man, and a cleric of Tyr serves no master but Tyr. But knowing the answer alone would not save him from confinement to the circle. He must do what he knew each of his brothers had done to complete the test. “The sword is not my master!” shouted Tarl, and he swung the blade of the broadsword down on his thigh. Blood pulsed from the gash, and Tarl screamed out in agony to right his own wrong. “Help … help Brother Sontag!” Tarl’s last memory was of the brothers who had been standing silent around the circle rushing to Brother Sontag’s side.

Tarl awoke to Brother Anton’s voice, bellowing, “Are ya goin’ to sleep till we get to Phlan, lad? Wake up! Don’t go supposin’ that just because you’re a full-fledged cleric now there’s no chores important enough for ya!”

“By the gods, I hurt all over!” Pain pounded through Tarl’s body, from his jammed elbow to the self-inflicted wound on his thigh. Every bump of the wagon sent fresh, white-hot spasms coursing through his body.

“Now, that’s gratitude! I spend the night a-patchin’ and a-prayin’, and you complain as though ya ain’t been healed.”

“No disrespect intended, Brother Anton, but if this is healed, I’m glad Tyr spared me from the hours since the test!”

Brother Sontag’s head appeared between the edge of the wagon and the curtain that shielded Tarl’s cot from the sun. Tarl struggled to a sitting position and tried to speak, to apologize, but Sontag raised a hand to silence him. “That’ll be enough bellyaching, Brother Tarl. Look at me—three times your age, and with a wound that would down a horse. Do you see me complaining? Brother Donal just spotted the poison river that leads south into Phlan. Can’t afford to have a strong young cleric like you in bed when we run up against the riffraff that’s rumored to inhabit this area.”

For two years, Tarl had been studying and training for the chance to serve Tyr in battle, to contribute to the establishment and expansion of a new temple. He was the only one in the group without actual battle experience. This finally was his chance to prove himself to the men who had taught him so much. Tarl threw back the bedding, stood up, and vaulted over the side of the wagon with all the exuberance of his age … and crumpled helplessly to the ground. Yesterday’s agony returned in full force as the self-inflicted wound on his leg reopened from the impact.

“You’ll be limpin’ for a lifetime if ya keep that up!” yelled Anton, and 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 slashing the underbellies of the terrified creatures. The animals’ death shrieks were hideous, but there was no chance to mourn for the horses as the skeleton warriors attacked with a vengeance. Swords clanked against shields and metal shattered bone as the clerics pressed forward. The sight of dozens of undead soldiers made every man’s blood run cold, but the brittle warriors stood no chance against the heavy hammers and ball and chains favored by the clerics of Tyr.

In a matter of minutes, the area was littered with bone fragments, but no man had a chance to catch his breath. Dozens more skeletons appeared, and grotesque zombies burst from the ground, their half-rotted bodies covered with maggots and dirt. Brother Sontag challenged the zombies with his holy symbol. “In the name of Tyr, begone!” A ray of pure white light shot from the holy symbol to the chest of the first of the lumbering creatures. The zombie’s rotting flesh began to smoke, then to bubble. Maggots, inflated from the intense heat, burst with the sound of popping corn. Like a cube of ice held over a fire, the zombie melted, layer by layer, until nothing was left but a puddle of slime.

The other clerics quickly raised their holy symbols against the zombies that followed. For each holy symbol, at least one zombie was turned to slime, but in their place followed even more zombies, along with some of the most frightful creatures of legend—wraiths, the ghostly mists that kill. Tarl could no longer quell his own terror. Shimmering clouds, gruesomely magnified images of giants, ogres, and other terrors closed in all around the clerics. By the dozens they came, from every corner of the graveyard. “Back, you spawn of evil!” shouted Brother Sontag, still wielding his holy symbol. “Press on, brothers! We must flee this place!”

The Hammer of Tyr clenched tightly in his hand, Tarl plunged forward. The other clerics followed, holding their holy symbols high, but the wraiths were undaunted. Tarl heard a hideous scream behind him. He recognized the voice as Brother Seriff’s. The next scream was Brother Donal’s. More followed in rapid succession.

Anton and Sontag ran on either side of Tarl, their shields held up at their sides. The ethereal hand of a wraith reached through Brother Sontag’s shield as though it were air and clawed at his face. Sontag didn’t have a chance to scream. Before he could finish his next step, he dropped to the ground, a withered husk. Tarl spun belatedly to the aid of the elder brother who had initiated him into the Brotherhood. Three wraiths floated over the body, their slime-green eyes bulging in the excitement of the kill.

“Abominations! Get away from him!” Tarl screamed. The Hammer of Tyr burned hot in his hand, and he threw it with all the fury pent up inside him. The sacred weapon blazed a brilliant blue as it spun toward the misty visages. Tarl watched in awe as three wraiths exploded the moment the glowing hammer passed through their bodies. He realized at the same instant he saw the hammer’s power unleashed that he had just discarded the holy object he was sworn to protect. “No!” he shouted, furious at his own stupidity. But before he could do anything, the hammer was sailing end-over-end toward him. Somehow it had reversed directions like a boomerang and was headed back straight toward his waiting hand. Without conscious effort on his part, the handle pressed into Tarl’s palm as though someone had slapped it into place.

Instantly the hammer blazed with an even greater radiance, bathing Anton, Tarl, and the three other remaining clerics in its holy aura. The skeletons and zombies were held at bay by the light. They shielded their faces with their bony arms. It was as if the eyes in their empty sockets were being blinded by the blue-white glare. The undead giants and ogres screamed in agony as they were touched by the light, and as one they turned and ran in fear. But the light from the mystical implement of Tyr didn’t stop the oncoming wraiths—or the creatures that followed.

“Back the way we come!” Anton shouted. “Run as you’ve never run before!” Anton shoved Tarl in front of him and wasted no time following. The big man was as fleet as any as he leaped over graves and slammed skeletons, splashing holy water on the bodies of the dead as he ran. “Bless … ya, brothers!” he gasped.

Tarl threw the Hammer of Tyr repeatedly as he ran. Wraiths exploded, and cries of the undead were everywhere. The other brothers continued to use their clerical powers—turning the undead with their holy symbols, throwing holy water, and muttering prayers to Tyr as they ran. Their powers were strong and undoubtedly would have been enough to save them under other circumstances, but the sheer numbers of undead made it impossible for the clerics to protect themselves completely. Tarl heard the screams of two more of his brothers, and then a third. Only Anton ran beside him now.

“Give usss the hammer.” Tarl pulled up short, and so did Anton, as they faced a line of six ghostly creatures, their distorted, taloned hands outstretched. “Give ussss the hammer,” they said once more.

Anton grimly assessed the situation. “They’re specters, lad, and a vampire leader.”

Tarl was overwhelmed by revulsion, rage, and unadulterated terror. Left by himself, he felt he would die of fright, but the Hammer of Tyr became a living extension of Tarl’s innate strength. Blue beams erupted from the hammer, blasting the remaining wraiths into cool white bits of fog. As more beams followed, the six specters were driven back.

“Well dooonnnne, lad!” A deep, evil-sounding voice echoed all around Tarl. Where the specters had stood only a moment ago, a handsome, white-robed man now floated in the air. His deep-red eyes shone, and his gaze seemed to burn into Tarl’s soul.

“No, Tarl! Don’t meet his gaze!” shouted Anton. “Get back, ya wretched vampire, ya spawn from the Abyss! As Tyr is my god, leave us alone!”

The robed figure seemed to flinch at Anton’s words, but then he stiffened and floated closer, smiling evilly. His deep voice echoed again throughout the graveyard. “Yooour puny god has no hooold over me!”

“Blasphemer! My god will swallow your unholy flesh and vomit you back to the Pit where ya belong!” Anton held out his holy symbol and quickly recited prayers to Tyr for turning the undead.

Tarl clutched his own holy symbol in one hand and the Hammer of Tyr in the other, but the creature’s glowing red eyes showed no fear. Even as the specters cowered back, the vampire floated closer. If it weren’t for the grisly fangs revealed when he smiled, the vampire would appear almost friendly. Tarl took a step forward, no longer afraid but drawn to the handsome figure.

“No!” Anton shouted, and Tarl felt the man’s huge paw clamp down firmly on his shoulder. Anton jerked Tarl back behind him and hurriedly incanted another clerical spell. “Let the flames o’ Tyr strike ya dead!” he shouted at the creature, and he threw a handful of sulfur toward it.

With a whoosh, a torrential column of blue flame shot down from the sky and bathed the robed figure in white-hot fire. It screamed in agony, and its robes disintegrated as it fell to the earth in flames. Naked, the vampire was revealed as a creature of nightmares. Its translucent skin was stretched taut over its bones. Its coloring remained a ghostly white, except where the flames had blasted patches of skin from the bones, leaving black, charred holes. There was no sign whatsoever of blood.

Then the creature rose and threw back its head in a laugh that forced Tarl to imagine the unholy depths of the Abyss. It was a horrid, hollow sound that Tarl would never forget. “Deeeear brother,” the vampire growled, “yoooour spell was powerful, but yoooou wished the wroooong thing. Yoooou can’t strike dead what is already dead!” Once more the creature laughed.

“Run, brother!” Anton whispered. “I’ll keep this abomination at bay till you can flee with the hammer!”

Tarl wanted nothing more than to flee, but he wasn’t about to leave his only remaining brother in the faith. “I’m with you, Brother Anton, and so is Tyr and the power of the hammer!”

“Then, by the gods, we’ll beat this bastard!” Anton swung his arm, shouted an arcane syllable, and released a blue symbol from his hand.

Thwack! The blue character, the holy symbol of Tyr, rocketed through the air and embedded itself in the forehead of the vampire.

“Aaaaghhh!” The creature dropped to its knees as the character sizzled and burned deep into its ghostly white skin. Still kneeling, the vampire lifted its head and cursed. “Noooow I trade yooooou word for word, doooog of Tyr!” The creature spit the word “Gnarlep!” at Anton. A black shape flew from its bloodless white lips and seared itself into Anton’s forehead.

Tarl gasped as he saw Anton bellow in agony and clasp both hands to his forehead. The big man clawed at the black mark with all his strength, but the unholy symbol was already burning its way deep into his flesh. He let out another agonized bellow and dropped to the ground, flailing and writhing like a madman.

“Stop it!” Tarl shrieked at the vampire. “Whatever you’re doing, stop! Leave him alone! What do I have to do before you’ll leave him alone?”

“What dooo I want?” the vampire asked caustically. “A dooozennn hoooly mennnn enter my graveyard carrying that wretched hammer that wakes the undead and leaves noooone of my minions at peace, and you ask what I want?” The vampire fought to stand. “I want that blasphemous weapon—noooow—or yoooour friend diessss!” With a twist of his bony hand, the vampire threw Anton into even greater throes of pain.

“Stop! Leave him alone!”

“The hammer, oooor he diessss! Give me the hammer, and I’ll provide yoooou and him with safe transpoooort from this place.” The vampire raised his hand toward Anton and held it up threateningly.

Tarl hurled the hammer directly at the creature, but the vampire flung itself to one side, and the hammer flew by harmlessly. The creature gestured madly, and before the hammer could return to Tarl’s hand, it was caught and held in red webbing that suddenly appeared in the air. The look of fear that had entered the vampire’s eyes a moment ago changed to a gleam of pleasure. “Thank yoooou, boooy,” the monster hissed.

Tarl dropped down beside Anton. The big man was still writhing in pain. He spoke only one word that could be understood—“No!” Tarl could imagine what Anton intended to say: “No, Tarl! Don’t throw the hammer! Don’t listen to him!” But it was too late. Tarl had lost the Hammer of Tyr, and now he would surely die with his friend.

“Now get away from me! Leave me be!” the vampire shrieked. There was no pleasure in its voice anymore, only pain. “Where will yoooou gooo? Tell me, and be gooone!”

Tarl didn’t understand why the creature would give him and Anton leave, but he wasn’t waiting around to find out. “To Civilized Phlan. To the Temple of Tyr,” he replied quickly.

Suddenly a huge puff of deep crimson smoke surrounded Tarl and Anton. For a moment, all Tarl could see was red. He could see neither the vampire nor Anton, nor indeed even his own hands. The roar of an unfathomable wind churned and swirled all around him, but he could feel nothing. It was as if his body were protected by layer upon layer of soft, impenetrable cloth.

When the red cloud finally cleared, he was sitting beside Anton in front of a gate to what was obviously the new temple of Tyr.

“Brothers!” Tarl cried from the gate. “Brothers of Tyr, help us!”

Tarl could see men moving in the twilight. Two approached, carrying lanterns, and when they saw the condition of their two fellow brothers, they called for more help. It took four men to carry Anton to a bed within the confines of the temple. For hours they worked on his feverish body, hardly exchanging words with each other or with Tarl as they tried to ease the pain of their fallen brother. When finally they had done all they could, an elder of the order who resembled Brother Sontag rested his hand on Tarl’s shoulder and led him to a room crowded with tables. “Sit,” said the old man. “Talk, and I’ll get you some food. I can see from your eyes, and from the condition of your brother, that there must be much to tell.” The elder brother left and returned shortly with stew and bread and bitter ale, then sat down beside Tarl.

Tarl ate absently. His body craved the food, but he had no energy to think about it. He had lost everything this day—ten of his brothers, the sacred object they had entrusted him with, and, he feared, Anton. After a night of spell-casting and laying on of hands and applying poultices, the brothers had succeeded only in easing Anton’s pain enough so that he could lie in some semblance of peace. But there was no spark in the man, no sign of understanding, and only a dim glimmer of recognition for Tarl when he was nearby. He had not spoken a word since they left the graveyard.

Again the old man prompted Tarl to speak. Tarl reached out and clutched the brother’s hand. “Twelve men started this journey, brother …”

“Tern. Brother Tern. And you are called …?”

“Tarl … Those same men trained me and initiated me into the Brotherhood of Tyr….” Tarl quickly related the story of their journey from Vaasa and their first sight of the Stojanow River.

“Here, we call it the Barren River,” Brother Tern interspersed. “No life can survive in its poison waters.”

Tarl nodded and continued. He told of the skeletons and zombies and wraiths, and of the horrible, screaming deaths of his brothers. But he did not mention the graveyard, nor did he tell of the vampire. He referred to the ruins of Phlan and expressed his belief that the Hammer of Tyr, with its tremendous power for good, must have awakened and infuriated all the undead of the city simply by its proximity. What evil had left its mark on Anton’s forehead, he did not know. He vowed to find out.

When he told the cleric that the Hammer of Tyr was missing somewhere in the ruins, he could see the older man’s pain. The clerics of Phlan had counted desperately on the hammer’s strength and power as they finished their temple and went out in numbers to face the very creatures Tarl was describing.

Aloud, Tarl vowed to help the brothers of Phlan in their search for the missing hammer as soon as he could clear his mind through mourning and meditation. Silently, Tarl vowed that he would spend his days building his knowledge, skills, power, and experience until he could, himself, regain the sacred hammer from the vampire and exact vengeance for his friends. The lies to Brother Tern were so much bile in Tarl’s mouth, but he knew that the responsibility for the loss of the hammer was his, and he was determined to set things right by himself.

The old cleric was sympathetic to Tarl’s plans. He believed he had convinced the young man to rest within the confines of the temple for at least a day and then seek out a private place, perhaps in the woodlands north of the city, to fulfill his need to pray and recuperate from the horrors he had witnessed.

When Tarl was finished with his meal and Brother Tern had departed, he went to Anton. Every cleric in the temple had laid hands on Anton, accomplishing almost nothing, but Tarl could not help but try again himself. His hand reached out toward Anton’s forehead, but it recoiled when his fingers made contact with the gelid skin. Where the black word had buried itself in Anton’s flesh, the cold was so intense that it burned. Tarl forced himself to press his hands onto his brother’s forehead, then began to pray. He could feel the healing powers of Tyr strong within his hands, but he felt no exchange of damaged energy for whole as he usually did in healing. When there wasn’t even a glimmer of warmth or recognition from Anton after Tarl had spent several hours with him, Tarl rolled out his bedding on a cot and lay down beside his teacher and friend.