Pool of Radiance

4 Fists and Friends

The sun was setting on a cloudless sky over the city of Phlan. As with every evening in Phlan, a double shift of watchmen and soldiers readied themselves for whatever dangers the night might bring. Darkness was the time favored by the many monster tribes living in the ruins of Old Phlan, which surrounded the new walled portion of the city that its builders called “Civilized Phlan.” Orcs roamed the slums immediately adjacent to the new city. Goblins and hobgoblins wandered the neighboring Kuto’s Well and Podol Plaza areas. It was said that fire and hill giants ruled at Stojanow Gate and Valjevo Castle, landmarks that could be seen from the walls of the merchants’ quarter. Rumor had it that even these monsters were afraid of the undead that were starting to rise in greater and greater numbers from Valhingen Graveyard, which was a mere five miles from the city’s shipping docks.

It was on one of the city’s wide piers that Tarl was walking when he spotted the figure of a woman, lying belly down, hammering on the dock so hard that she was actually causing the heavy wooden planks to rattle with each blow of her fists. Beside her stood a great horse. As Tarl moved closer, he could hear that the woman was crying. His curiosity piqued, he edged closer still.

The horse raised its head as Tarl approached, but it made no movement or sound. The woman remained oblivious to his presence. Tarl could see now that blood was caking to the sides of her hands, where they were worn raw from hammering against the nails and wood splinters on the dock planking. Compelled by his faith, Tarl squatted down and grabbed the woman’s large hands in his own. “Please, lady, you must stop. Enough is enough.” Had the woman struggled against his grip, he probably could not have stopped her from pulling her hands loose and resuming pounding the dock, but she turned her head toward him and left her hands extended, as if perhaps her energies were spent. Tarl could feel the power of a healing spell flowing through his own body and into hers as he muttered a prayer to Tyr. Slowly the caked blood loosened and sloughed off. New skin formed, pink and pale, to seal the broken blood vessels. More new skin formed to cover the tender wound. Soon her torn hands became smooth again.

Though Tarl’s clerical skills did not approach those of Sontag, he was blessed with great innate power. He had used his healing abilities before, and had always found healing a very special exchange. The process inevitably involved sharing something extremely deep and personal with the receiver. Healing this woman was no different, except that he felt as though she also had shared something deep and personal with him. He squeezed her strong hands in his own and then pulled the woman gently to a sitting position. He stared into her eyes, and even in the dim twilight, he could see that they were a captivating green. The highlights of her long, full hair shimmered red in the flickering light of the torches that lined the docks. He glanced down, aware that he was staring, and that is when he realized that her leather garments were ridiculously tight, stretched over her tall frame in such a way that they awkwardly revealed much of her impressively ample body.

Tarl cleared his throat and started to speak. His voice cracked as he introduced himself. “I am … Tarl Desanea, a cleric of the warrior god, Tyr. I am … at your service….”

“Thank you,” said the woman quietly.

Still holding her hands, Tarl pulled the young woman up to her feet. He swallowed hard as he realized that she was nearly a fist’s height taller than he and impressively fit. His face reddened as he noticed that a patch of material above her left breast had torn loose, revealing more woman than he had ever seen in his twenty years. He stepped back toward the horse, releasing his grip on her hands. “Uh, do you have a … blanket … or something?”

The big horse stamped and snorted, and Tarl flushed once more.

“Yes, of course,” said the woman, quickly pulling the panel up to cover herself as she realized the reason for the cleric’s embarrassment. She then turned to the horse. “Easy, Cerulean. I think we can trust this man.” She pointed toward a bedroll lashed securely to the horse’s back.

Tarl untied the bedroll, rolled a blanket from it, and moved close to drape it around the woman’s broad shoulders. As he did, he noticed her warm, perfumed scent, and as he stepped back, he prayed a silent thank-you to Tyr for not demanding abstinence from his clerics.

“I’m sorry. It seems I’ve forgotten my manners,” said the woman, turning demurely to face Tarl again. “I’m Shal … Shal Bal of Cormyr. I am a mage, formerly an apprentice to the great Ranthor.”

Tarl found himself staring again. He had never before seen a mage so long on physical prowess. Most, he assumed, found their way into the mentally taxing profession because they did not have the physical strength for other jobs, and once they became practicing magic-users, they damaged their bodies even further by repeatedly performing physically taxing magicks. This woman called Shal could be mistaken for a smith, or even a warrior. With practice, Tarl thought, she could probably wield a hammer as well as he, or perhaps even Anton.

As Tarl stood appraising Shal, she was doing likewise. The young cleric’s white hair did not match his youthful face. His steel-gray eyes were wise, and yet innocent at the same time. She had no real reason to trust him. She knew only what he had told her—that he was a warrior cleric of Tyr—but she had felt a strange bond from the minute he took her hands in his and healed her. She recalled, too, that Ranthor had always spoken highly of Tyrian clerics. He’d referred to them as “just” and “men you can trust at your back,” words he didn’t use lightly.

“Uh, Tarl,” Shal began awkwardly. “Do you know this town? Is there some place I could go to purchase some new leathers?”

“Of course … forgive me.” He looked tentatively at the horse. “Can we both ride that animal? I mean, I assume you do, but will he let me ride, too?”

“What do you say, Cerulean?” asked Shal, reaching for the saddle.

If I have my say I’d say either one of you is quite heavy enough.

Shal hadn’t really expected an answer, and as before, the horse’s mental communication took her by surprise. She was by no means used to the idea of the familiar sending messages directly to her brain.

“So what do you want me to do—ride while he walks?” she answered in annoyance.

Tarl looked at her quizzically. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I was just answe—uh, talking to the horse.” She might have to explain about Cerulean to him sometime, she thought, but not now. She let Tarl cinch the saddle and help her up into it, then reached down and gave him a hand.

Oof! Double oats tonight, Mistress, especially after you made me do all that running for nothing.

Shal attempted a mental Shut up, but she could only guess that Cerulean had “heard” her when he snorted and bolted into a trot before he had even gotten off the docks and onto shore.

“Whoa, Cerulean! We’ll hold it to a walk for now,” Shal directed.

The horse obliged, but Shal couldn’t help but wonder if he was intentionally adding an extra jar to his previously smooth gait.

Tarl had only been in the city of Phlan for two days himself, but the brothers from the temple had been free with advice about the merchants in town, and he had done some exploring himself as he tried to learn more about the beasts and undead creatures living outside the walls of Civilized Phlan.

He directed Shal to a seamstress, a pleasant woman who had mended Tarl’s robes for him just the day before. When Shal let the blanket drop from her shoulders, the seamstress had to fight to keep from gawking. She couldn’t recall another woman she’d ever done a fitting for with a physique like Shal’s, and she certainly couldn’t remember anyone with such ridiculously fitted clothes. “Wha—what can I do for ya?” she finally spluttered.

Shal winced as she saw what she took to be the woman’s reaction to her size. Shal had been painfully aware, when she first stood next to Tarl, of how tall she had become, but his stares had seemed to be warm, even vaguely admiring. This woman was looking at her as if she were a freak. Shal almost wanted to break down and cry again, but she fought to keep her voice firm. “I need some clothes for the night—anything will do—and I’d like to pick up a full set of tailored leathers just as soon as you can have them ready.”

The woman looked at the rack of clothing behind her and shook her head slowly. There wasn’t a stitch of women’s clothing in her shop that would fit the woman standing in front of her. But then she had a sudden thought and went quickly to the back room. In a few moments she returned with a full set of leathers and leather armor. “I can’t fit you up very pretty, miss, but I do have this,” she said, holding out the outfit at arm’s length. “It was made for a man—a good-sized man. He was going to pay me for it when he finished a mission to Sokol Keep. I should’ve suspected he’d never come back. He was too adventurous for his own good….” Her voice trailed off, and Shal sensed that the woman must have cared for the man.

“Are—are you sure you want me to have these?” asked Shal.

“Sure I’m sure,” she said softly. “Besides, customers your size are few and far between.” The woman saw Shal bite her lip and quickly blurted, “No offense intended, miss. I’ll need to alter this some before you wear it. I mean, you’re tall and all, but you’ve got a trim waistline, and there’ll be … other adjustments to make. Isn’t that right, young man?” she said, turning to Tarl.

Tarl hadn’t taken his eyes off Shal since she had removed the blanket. Now his face burned red, and he grinned sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you’ll need to make some adjustments.”

“Fine lotta help you are!” scolded the woman, and she shooed Tarl out into the street, with an admonishment not to come back until she pulled the curtains open again.

The leather tunic and leggings were the softest things Shal had ever felt against her skin. She brushed one sleeve admiringly, and the seamstress cooed proudly, “Genuine chimera leather. It don’t come cheap, but it’ll last you a lifetime if you treat it right. Now, you stand still, and I’ll mark the places that need altering. I’ll be able to send you home with these tonight, if you’ve got eight silvers and a couple of hours.”

“I guess I have both and not much choice, regardless.” Shal watched the woman as she whisked about her. She was as slender as a praying mantis, and not a muscle marred her silky skin. Just hours ago, my figure was like that, Shal thought. Now I’m nothing but a giant, some kind of freak. I even tower over Tarl, and he must be over six feet tall….

“So, is that cleric your beau?” asked the seamstress nonchalantly, interrupting Shal’s thoughts.

“No. Uh … he’s a friend … an acquaintance, really.”

“His eyes weren’t sayin’ acquaintance, miss, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

“We just met. He … he healed me. I’d injured my hands, and my clothes were ruined….”

“You aren’t exaggerating there. They look as though you burst out of ’em. I’ll never understand how they coulda fit in the first place.”

Shal didn’t know what to say, or indeed whether it was worth explaining to this stranger or not, but she wanted to justify herself, to explain to somebody that she hadn’t always looked like this. She told the woman part of her story, leaving out the part about how foolish she had been but explaining how she was magically changed to her current size.

The seamstress looked at her with genuine pity. It’s sad enough a woman has to worry about her looks from the day she’s born, she thought. This one’s prettier than most, but she still feels she has to tell stories to explain her appearance. The seamstress tried to be reassuring. “I haven’t seen many women your size in this part of the Realms, miss, but you don’t need to apologize about your appearance to anyone. You look healthy as a horse, and you’ve got a nice face and beautiful hair. Why, you should’ve seen the look that young cleric was givin’ you. There’s many a woman who goes through a lifetime without being at the receivin’ end of a look like that!”

Shal only felt worse, sensing that the woman’s words were prompted by pity. She was certain Tarl’s look was either that of a young, rather inexperienced man who’d never seen nearly so much of a woman exposed, or perhaps that of a warrior cleric admiring a person of equal brawn. At any rate, she really didn’t want to think about it, so she stood quietly through most of the remainder of the fitting. It wasn’t until the seamstress began sewing that she decided to find out if the woman knew anything about Denlor’s tower. The seamstress knew of it. She said she’d heard that the old mage had managed to hold on to new territory gained in the northeast corner of Civilized Phlan for several months before finally succumbing to the onslaughts of the creatures attacking from the outside. Shal shivered at the way the local woman said “outside,” as if she were pronouncing a curse or speaking of the Abyss itself.

The seamstress finished taking in the last tuck and handed her the tunic and pants to try on. When she had slipped the incredibly soft leather on, the woman helped her lace the leggings and girdle. “Very impressive, if I do say so myself, miss. The black looks good on you. Do you want to comb those tresses of yours and then take a look in the mirror in back?”

“I—I’ll comb my hair; it must look awful. But I think I’ll pass on the mirror. I trust your judgment.” Shal shuddered at the thought of seeing her reflection. She’d seen the size of the pieces the seamstress worked with, and tucks or no, they were huge. Regardless of how the clothing might look on her, though, it felt wonderful. As soon as Shal finished brushing and combing her thick, long hair, she paid the seamstress the eight silvers she had asked for, plus a generous tip.

The moment the woman pulled open the curtains to the shop, Tarl entered. He was frankly stunned by what he saw. Shal’s freshly combed red hair shone like highly polished rosewood against the deep black leather velour of the tunic. The green in her eyes blazed in the bright light of the seamstress’s lanterns. Most of all, Shal’s full figure was accented in devastating accuracy by the seamstress’s careful tailoring.

“Pull your jaw up, boy,” said the woman sternly. “You’d think you’d never seen a woman before.”

“You look … great, Shal,” Tarl said, faltering.

Great? Shal shook her head imperceptibly. She couldn’t possibly look great, but she did have to admit that she felt a little less awkward with the new clothes on. Certainly her legs and arms didn’t seem so conspicuously out of proportion now that she wore garments that were the right size. It helped, too, that the new leathers didn’t bind her so tightly that she felt like an overstuffed sausage. “Thank you,” Shal said absently, and she turned to leave.

Tarl followed her out like an adoring puppy. “Shal, I’d be honored if you’d allow me to help you find a place where you can stay tonight. Maybe we could have dinner together, if you feel up to it. I’d really like a chance to talk some more.”

“I’d like that, too,” said Shal. “But I could use a little time alone. I’ve lost something … some things … very dear to me recently, and I’m really not myself.”

Tarl helped Shal mount Cerulean. “I know what you mean, Shal. I’ve lost something important to me, too. I think that may be why I felt such a special bond with you right from the start.” Tarl mounted the horse behind her and wrapped his arms around her firm waist as they began to ride toward the center of town. He had yet to get a room for himself—he’d spent the previous night at the temple, and would probably do the same tonight—but he’d been told that the Laughing Goblin Inn offered safe, if a bit overpriced, lodging. He remembered the general direction but wasn’t familiar enough with the town yet to know the most direct route to the inn. When they finally arrived and left Cerulean in the stable, Tarl had the distinctly odd feeling that the horse was annoyed with him.

The common room of the inn was already crowded. It took some time to locate the innkeeper, but fortunately there were vacancies. The prices Sot charged kept the inn from getting too full. “I’ll show ya up to your room myself, miss,” said Sot to the big woman. “Your dinner’s included in the price,” he added.

“For what you’re charging the lady, you should throw in meals for a week, but we thank you nonetheless,” Tarl said wryly.

Looking to Tarl and without missing a beat, Sot said, “It’ll be another silver if you’re planning on staying with her.”

Tarl coughed. “I won’t be, thank you. I’ll see her to her room, though.”

As Sot left the two of them, Tarl remained in the doorway. “Shal, take as long as you need. I’ll be down in the common room waiting whenever you decide to come down.”

“Thanks for all your help, Tarl. I won’t be too long.”

Tarl closed the door, and Shal stared straight ahead. Hanging on the inside of the doorway was a full-length mirror. She clasped her hand to her mouth and stifled a sob. Standing before Shal was a creature that frightened her more than any of the monsters rumored to lurk outside the city. She knew she had changed. Every time she looked anywhere, she was aware that her perspective was that of a considerably taller person. She had been able to see hands and arms, feet and legs, that belonged to a different person. Now that she saw her full reflection, she fully comprehended the fact that every inch of her body had grown proportionally. Even the fine black leathers didn’t conceal the fact that she was bigger, considerably bigger, than she had ever imagined she could be.

Shal had always taken pride in her slim, supple arms and legs. She was proud, too, of her small feet, delicate fingers, and fine facial features. An almost completely changed woman returned her stare in the mirror. She was relieved to see that her body parts were not distorted, initially one of her big fears. The essence of her features, the intangible something that made her recognizable as herself, was still present, but she looked as if she’d gone through a major post-adolescent growth spurt and gotten incredibly serious about physical fitness. Shal tipped her head back and sighed. There were no more tears left in her. She had chided herself for her foolishness. She had mourned the loss of her petite body. She now faced the new Shal Bal. She didn’t like it, but this was the Shal who would avenge Ranthor’s death, and this was the Shal she would face until … until she died, for all she knew.

She backed away from the mirror till her legs brushed the bed. The big bed groaned as she lay down, mentally exhausted. She did her best to ignore it, lying still and breathing slow, easy breaths, the cleansing breaths Ranthor had taught her to quiet her mind and spirit. Each time she inhaled, she focused on pulling the loose ends of a particular fear from her extremities, and as she exhaled, she purged the fear from her body. By the time she went downstairs, her anxieties were gone. She was not happy to be living in her new body, but she was at peace. From the landing, she scanned the crowded common room until she spotted Tarl’s silver-white hair.

When Shal reached Tarl’s table, his face lit up. It crossed her mind that she was fortunate to have found a companion like Tarl. Within moments after she sat down, the two were talking about recent events in their lives. Shal’s conversation meandered from present to past and back again. She described the events leading up to Ranthor’s death. She told Tarl stories of the special things her teacher had done for her, and talked about how it felt to be carrying on without him. Embarrassed, she related the story of her squandered wishes and the little she knew about Denlor’s tower.

Tarl, in turn, described the horrors he had faced in the graveyard. For some reason, he disclosed to Shal even more than he had told to Brother Tern. He described in detail the horror of the horses’ screams and the screams of his brothers. He told about the vampire, with its bloodless skin and bone-chilling deep voice. He omitted only the exact way in which the hammer was lost, since he considered its recovery his personal quest. Perhaps he would tell Shal about it in time, but for now he had said enough.

“I’m sorry to bore you with my story,” Tarl concluded. “The deaths of my friends weigh heavily on me, but I still can’t believe I’m telling all this to you.”

At a loss for words, Shal sat quietly for several minutes, lost in thought. “What makes me feel so bad,” she said finally, “is that I let you heal me and help me find clothes and a place to stay without ever even considering that you might have your own problems.”

“Enough said, my friend. Let’s eat.” Tarl clapped his hands to get the attention of the big blond man who was working the tables.

“We’ll take chowder and biscuits … oh, and wine for the two of us,” said Tarl after consulting with Shal. “Is there anything else you’d recommend?”

The big tavern worker didn’t respond. Instead, he stood staring, slack-jawed, at Shal. Tarl cleared his throat to capture his attention again.

“Yes, sir … ma’am. Would you repeat that?”

Tarl repeated his order and his query.

“Well, we have some quail eggs that the cook does a terrific job on. They’d go well with your chowder.” The tavern worker’s intense blue eyes never left Shal as he spoke, and Tarl noticed that she was turning red under the big man’s scrutiny.

“Is there something going on here that I’m not aware of? Do you two know each other?” asked Tarl, irritated by the attention the man was paying to Shal, not to mention the obvious discomfort he was causing her.

“No, sir,” said the tavern worker, and he bowed hurriedly and left the table. Tarl noted that the man did not move like a typical tavern worker. Despite the fact that he stood a hand taller than Tarl and had brawn that rivaled Anton’s, the big man made his way through the crowd with the grace of a warrior, or perhaps even a thief.

In minutes, he returned with a tray full of food, which he spread out on the table one dish at a time. Again, his full attention was focused on Shal.

“Are you always in the habit of staring at the inn’s guests?” Tarl asked, catching the tavern worker’s sleeve to get his attention.

“Was I staring?” The waiter paused, and his face flushed a deep red. He realized that was exactly what he had been doing. “Please accept my apologies. It’s just that you … you remind me of someone. I really am sorry.”

“Hey, you!” came a shout from a nearby table. “What happened to our food?”

“Yeah, what does a guy have to do to get some service in this joint?” called another voice.

Ren was oblivious. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m called Ren … Ren o’ the Blade.” Ren shook Tarl’s hand and then Shal’s. He consciously looked down at the floor to avoid staring again. The woman could have passed for Tempest’s twin. Seeing her was eerie, like seeing a ghost, but overwhelming at the same time. The woman shared all the traits that had originally attracted him to Tempest—her firm figure, her captivating eyes, her flowing red hair. And if anything, she was even prettier. Her facial features were fine for a woman her size, and the green of her eyes was even more intense than Tempest’s had been.

One of the men who had called from a nearby table, a warrior with a sword and a long dagger at his belt, was approaching Ren from behind. “Hey, you there!” The man’s words were slow and slurred, but Ren understood nonetheless. “Ya big galoot! We got food comin’, and we’re sick o’ waitin’ for you.”

“I’d like to speak with you again later if I have a chance,” Ren said to Tarl and Shal, then turned to face the warrior. “Excuse me.” He turned and ushered the drunk back to his table. “I’ll have your food in a minute,” Ren said as he sat the man down firmly. “Now, if you’ll all pardon me,” he added, bowing as he left the warrior and his companions.

Shal watched Ren work his way back through the crowd, then she turned back to Tarl. “First that seamstress, and now this guy. Every time I start to feel as if I can cope with the change in my appearance, someone looks at me as if I were a freak.”

“He said you remind him of someone. I’m sure that’s why he was staring,” Tarl assured her. “He didn’t seem to be trying to be rude or unmannerly. In fact, he went out of his way to be polite and took a big chance of offending that warrior and his comrades.”

“That’s for sure. I hope he doesn’t turn his back on those fellows tonight.” Shal took her first spoonful of the chowder and realized after having a second that she was famished. Tarl did likewise, and the two forgot about conversation and began to eat heartily.

When Ren finally brought out the beef pies and refills of the pitchers of ale ordered by the table of fighters, they complained bluntly about his service. Under ordinary circumstances, Ren probably would have apologized and tried to do something to make amends, but on this night, he wasn’t even paying attention. Instead, he was staring once again at Shal. He set the plates down on one end of the table, making no attempt to match orders. And when he started pouring the ale, he accidentally overfilled one of the cups, sloshing ale in the laps of the customer.

“What do you think you’re doing, you clumsy oaf?” the warrior blurted angrily.

“I’m awfully sorry. Here,” said Ren, handing the man a bar rag. “I’ve got to find out her name,” he muttered, as if to himself.

Ren turned on his heels and strode to the table where Shal and Tarl remained seated. Behind him, the fighters were sputtering angrily, but Ren neither saw nor heard them. He was staring down again at the woman who so startingly resembled his lost love. “May I know your name?”

Shal didn’t answer. Instead, she pointed behind him. Ren didn’t react, but Tarl did. From the corner of his eye he had been watching Ren ever since he first approached the warriors. When Ren spilled the ale and walked away, Tarl knew there was going to be trouble. “Dagger!” shouted Tarl, and he rushed past Ren and tackled the approaching fighter.

Ren spun around to confront the three other men who had been sitting at the table. Normally Ren would have tried to maneuver in such a way that he only had to face one man at a time, but he didn’t want any of these rabble getting anywhere close to the woman behind him. He spread his bearlike arms as wide as they would go and plowed forward, taking all three men to the floor with him.

Sot heard the noise of the fight before he saw what was happening. “Not another fight!” he muttered to no one in particular. “Used to be a scuffle in a tavern was no big deal, but now the town council sends the Watch Guards out to break it up. A guy can lose customers that way.” He grabbed his club and leaped over the bar. Unfortunately, he landed hard on the foot of a customer who was making his way toward the center of the action. Sot learned the hard way that it is almost impossible to apologize with a cudgel in your hand, and in moments the entire inn had joined the fray.

Shal watched as Tarl expertly administered a chop to the neck of the man with the dagger and sent him reeling. Quickly he followed up to finish the job, while Ren was wrestling with two of the warriors he had knocked to the floor. The third was up and was about to kick Ren in the spleen, but Shal leaped into the action and pushed him hard from behind, screaming, “Leave him alone!” The man fell full belly onto a table of food and immediately began to be pummeled by several people who had been calmly attempting to eat despite the fracas.

“Hey! What do you know?” said Shal, looking down at her hands. “Being strong has some advantages after all!”

“You all right, Shal?” asked Tarl, pausing after fending off still another brawler with a well-placed kick.

“So the name is Shal, is it?” Ren shouted as he pushed one of the warriors toward a boisterous knot of fighters that had formed near the center of the room. “Do you have any relatives in Waterdeep?”

“No,” called Shal above the din. “Why do you ask?”

At this point, five fighters advanced toward the trio. Two well-armed women rushed toward Tarl like charging bulls, and two good-sized men began to pummel Ren with their fists. The fifth fighter planted himself squarely in front of Shal and began to wind up for a punch to her midsection. Shal had never been in a fistfight before. Instinctively she threw her arms up to protect her face and tensed every muscle in her body. His blow to her firm stomach didn’t even phase her. Slack-jawed, the man looked up at Shal, his face turning green. She looked down at him, formed a fist just like her attacker’s but larger, and slammed a hard uppercut into the man’s chin. He staggered back and crashed to the floor well beyond where her first victim had landed.

Meanwhile, Ren and Tarl had dispatched their attackers just in time to see the results of Shal’s punch. “Whoa there, girl!” Tarl called out, panting. “You should be protecting us!” Tarl stole a moment to glance at Ren, and Shal and the two men broke into smiles and turned as one to face whatever riffraff might still be of a mind to tackle them, but there were no takers. Most of the crowd were occupied with brawls of their own. The few people who’d been paying attention were frozen by the remarkable prowess of the three fighters, who fought as if they’d been battling together for years.

“We’d better get out of here,” grunted Ren to his new companions. “The Watch Guard will be here any minute. They sentence people for brawling now in ‘Civilized’ Phlan.”

Quickly the three worked their way to the inn’s big double doors and pushed through. Before they even had a chance to step into the street, they were blocked by seven members of the Watch Guard. The guards wasted no time expertly slipping the loops of their man-catchers around the necks of the three. The strange implements were basically nothing more than nooses on long poles, designed to keep captives a safe distance from their captors. A quick jerk of the torturous implements by the guards sent the three to their knees, choking, effectively eliminating any thoughts of resistance. Another practiced jerk, and they were standing again.

“Take them before the council,” instructed the group’s leader. “We’ll get the rest of this rabble cleaned up in short order.”

“Even man-catchers have their weaknesses,” Tarl whispered to Ren.

Ren shook his head. “Don’t try anything, friend. The sentence for fighting here is mild compared to the one for resisting the Watch Guard. It isn’t worth it.”

“You’ve got that right,” one of the guards said as he prodded them along. “Now, shut up and get a move on. The night’s council representative is waiting for you.”

Porphyrys Cadorna loved night council duty. As Tenth Councilman, he seldom had a chance to demonstrate his wisdom; there were always nine others whose views superseded his. But during night duty, he was judge and jury for whatever citizens were dragged into the council chambers. Cadorna dreamed of the advancements he would earn as the wisdom of his judgments became known to the rest of the council and the voting representatives of Phlan. Naturally he would make certain that his decisions were widely known.

Porphyrys was the last living member of the noble Cadornas, a family respected for its wealth and power until the time of the Dragon Run. The Cadorna Textile House was among many businesses and landmarks destroyed by the onslaught of dragons that leveled Phlan fifty years ago, and its ruins remained just outside the civilized portion of the city, under the control of the darker forces of Phlan. When his last uncle was on his deathbed, Porphyrys vowed, for reasons of honor and reasons of his own, to return the name of his family to prominence. His personal goal was nothing less than to rule Phlan, no matter what the cost. Porphyrys was a patient man—he had worked his way through the ranks of the assembly and finally attained the position of Tenth Councilman—but he had been a long time waiting, and now he was ready to take any steps necessary to get what he wanted.

Cadorna stretched his long legs. Yes, making the council, even the tenth seat, was definitely a step in the right direction. With the council supervising every facet of the city’s life, there was hardly anything he wasn’t able to get his hands into. A man on the council was a veritable king.

And the man in the first seat is king, thought Cadorna, or at least as close to king as one could get in Phlan. He moved around the table and sat in the First Councilman’s chair. Yes, this feels more like it, he thought, wriggling down in the plush seat to make himself more comfortable. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Quickly getting up, Cadorna hurried back to the tenth chair. “Come in!” he shouted, a little louder than necessary.

“Your dinner, Councilman,” the attendant announced. “Also, the mage, Gensor, is here and wishes to speak with you about one of the parties whose case you will be reviewing in the next session.”

“Send him in.”

Gensor worked for the city, checking and setting up magical seals, scanning prisoners for magical items, and sometimes providing interpretations of supernatural events. In addition to his official duties, he also worked privately, on an assignment basis, for Cadorna. Cadorna found Gensor’s insight useful, but nevertheless always felt uneasy around the mage. It was said that magic-users could read men’s minds.

The black-robed mage entered the chambers and found Cadorna sitting down before a plateful of mutton and potatoes the attendant had just brought in. Gensor always marveled at Cadorna’s appetite. Nearly every time he came to see the man, he seemed to be sitting down for a meal or a snack, yet somehow he remained as lean as a lizard.

Almost anyone who spent any time with Cadorna, including Gensor, could not help but be aware that the man had a busy social and political agenda, and while Gensor didn’t care for Cadorna on a personal basis, he knew he was a man to watch.

“What is it, Gensor?” demanded Cadorna. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Gensor smiled, deciding to assume that Cadorna was joking. “I thought it necessary to speak with you. An unusual trio is coming before you for judgment during your next session. There’s a tavern worker from the Laughing Goblin, a woman new to town, and a cleric of Tyr.”

“So? Come to the point, will you, man?”

Gensor interpreted the councilman’s impatience as posturing, something at which he excelled. Consequently, he took his time with the explanation. “I thought you should know that the tavern worker radiates a powerful but isolated magic.”

“What do you mean ‘isolated’?” Cadorna set down his fork and leaned toward Gensor.

“I mean it comes from his boots and must be the boots themselves or something he carrying in them. I’m sure he’s no magic-user.”

“So he’s carrying a magical item,” Gensor stated. “That doesn’t seem particularly unusual.”

“As I said, whatever it is, it’s very powerful. But at any rate, I wasn’t finished. The woman radiates magic like a beacon in the night. I have no way of knowing what items or power she has, but I’ve never received a stronger reading from my spell. The cleric is just what he seems. He has no magical devices on his person, save his holy symbol.” Gensor could almost see Cadorna’s mind at work. He was tempted to use a spell to detect the man’s thoughts but decided not to. He rather enjoyed watching Cadorna as his mind worked.

“There is one other thing I wanted to mention. Apart from their magic, the three probably make up the most physically powerful trio I have ever seen. I think, under the circumstances, you may find these three useful.”

“Thank you, Gensor,” Porphyrys Cadorna said thoughtfully. “Well done. You may go now.” He watched as the mage left, and then he allowed himself the pleasure of gloating over the possibilities. Technically, he should reserve judgment on a group such as this for the First Councilman and the Eighth—the first because of the magic attested to by the mage, and the latter because he was a Tyrian cleric and therefore presided over matters concerning the temple of Tyr.

On the other hand, Cadorna mused, Gensor was right to point these three out to me. They certainly could do me some good. Some kind of a test is in order, and I think I know just what it should be. If they can survive the dangers of Sokol Keep, they may be worthy of some other tasks I have in mind….

Cadorna savored the last bite of mutton. The cook had finally gotten the seasonings and cooking time right. Now, if he could only work on the potatoes … the sauce they had simmered in had boiled away to nothing, and the potatoes were dry and overdone.

When the attendant came in to pick up the dishes, Cadorna suggested he tell the cook to start learning more quickly if he didn’t want to be replaced.

“Yes, Honorable Tenth Councilman.” The attendant quickly wiped off the table and turned to leave with Cadorna’s dirty dishes.

“Wait, boy. How many cases for review this session?” asked Cadorna.

“Two, I believe, sir. The watch warden would know for sure.”

“Obviously he would know, but he’s not here, is he? It wouldn’t hurt for you to pay attention to such details, would it?” Cadorna snapped. “In any case, remind the watch warden that I like to have spectators present. Have him admit any who are waiting and drum up a few more if he has to. I’ll be ready to start the next session in fifteen minutes.”

The attendant bowed awkwardly, taking care not to drop the dishes, and then took his leave. Cadorna used the time to check his attire. He firmly believed that intimidation was critical to passing judgments, and that a person was always more intimidating when he looked his best. Finally Cadorna lifted his sleeve to check his poison dagger. It was held in place by a gold armlet, an heirloom that featured the Cadorna family crest, a snake with its tail coiled around a weaver’s shuttle. The dagger was loose and at the ready. Cadorna also believed that a man in his position could never be too careful.

When Cadorna finally entered the hearing room, he was pleased to see that it was almost full. Crowds always made cases more interesting, and he felt his growing reputation deserved maximum exposure. The next case, according to the watch warden, involved two feuding groups of clerics. Each band held that the other was stealing its worshipers, but Cadorna was only half listening. Instead, he was watching the three the mage had spoken about.

The tavern worker was a huge man, dressed in a loose tunic. With his knotted hair and baggy clothing, he appeared at first glance to be nothing more than a giant dullard, but Cadorna could see from his forearms, the breadth of his shoulders, and his posture that the man was incredibly well muscled. The woman was almost as tall as the tavern worker, and she looked strong enough and fit enough to take on almost any man. Cadorna shivered. He was himself quite tall, but he hated big men, and he had no use for large women. He preferred women who were petite and meek. The cleric of Tyr was a handsome, well-built man, obviously powerful, but nothing like the big tavern worker. His face was that of a young man, yet his hair was silvery white, the color of a much older man’s. Cadorna stared intently at each of them, hoping to detect something of their magic, but he had no such ability.

He straightened in his chair. If he was going to use these three to his best advantage, he must make a good impression on them. He directed his attention to the cleric who was testifying. “What was that you just said, Canon? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Dessel, your honor. Canon Dessel. Honorable Councilman Cadorna,” the cleric pleaded, “these fights between our two faiths must come to a stop. No one profits from such bickering.”

“Yes, I quite agree, and I believe I have just the remedy.” Cadorna had heard just enough of the case to have an idea. He stood up and swept his arm from one party to the other, in a grandiose gesture. He’d seen the First Councilman make the same motion before, and he was very taken with the effect. “A cleric from each temple will be dispatched immediately to spend thirty days helping heal the brave watchmen who suffer injury while guarding the walls of the city. For every report of disputes between the two temples that reaches the council, another cleric from each temple will be assigned to thirty days of healing service. In this manner, each side will be encouraged to put aside petty bickering or have little time for the maintenance of its own temple. Of course, in the meantime, you will both be serving the needs of our city.”

The crowd began murmuring. For a moment, Cadorna worried that he may have gone too far in his judgment. Then he saw the tentative nods of agreement and smiles on people’s faces. Several clerics from each of the temples actually walked, albeit reluctantly, to the center of the room and shook hands! Cadorna beamed with pride at the sound logic of his decree.

“The Tenth Councilman has spoken,” the watch warden declared. He ushered the canons of both temples away and then returned to announce the principals in the next case. “Shal Bal of Cormyr, Tarl Desanea of Vaasa, and Ren o’ the Blade of Waterdeep will stand before this session of the council to be judged in the matter of disorderly conduct and brawling within the city limits of Civilized Phlan.”

Porphyrys Cadorna gazed down from his place on the dais in the most condescending and accusatory manner he could muster. “This is the council chamber of the city of Phlan,” said Cadorna in his most official-sounding voice. “You have been brought here by the Watch Guard for wrongdoing in our fair city. Rest assured that I will hear out what you have to say and carefully review the nature of your case before passing judgment.”

Ren was barely aware of what Cadorna was saying. He was busy making a mental note of the full names and home grounds of his two newfound companions. He was still wrestling with the idea that Shal might be somehow related to Tempest. Related or no, he was stunned by her looks and more than a little taken with her candid, bright-eyed manner. Likewise, Ren had been impressed by Shal’s cleric friend, Tarl. Tarl hadn’t had any reason to jump into the midst of that fight. In fact, he could probably have sought sanctuary at his temple instead of facing judgment.

For Shal, everything about the night had seemed strange and artificial, like a play she was watching from the wings but which she could begin acting in at any time. When the guards first caught her in their wretched nooses, Shal had been terrified. She had seriously considered pulling out the Staff of Power to learn exactly what it could do. It was the relative calm of Tarl and Ren that had kept her from doing something foolish. Neither of them had seemed particularly concerned about being captured. She also felt reassured by the councilman’s manner. She was impressed by the fairness of the decision he had imposed upon the clerics, and he had promised fairness in reviewing their case. Whatever the sentence, she hoped it wouldn’t take long to fulfill. She had hoped to travel to Denlor’s tower the next day, after a good night’s rest. This could hold her up considerably.

Tarl had himself observed the clerics of Sune and Tempus arguing in the streets over converts and then watched with interest as they brought their argument before the night council. He, too, was impressed with Cadorna’s judgment because of its twofold prospect for good—helping the temples, while at the same time helping the city. Somehow, though, the wisdom and fairness of the decision didn’t ring true with his gut intuition about Cadorna. Tarl had seldom gone wrong trusting his first impressions of people. He was as comfortable with Shal and Ren as if he had known them all his life, but he had no such sense of comfort in the presence of Cadorna. He was conscious of the man’s posturing, something common to political leaders, and there was something else that made him feel very cool toward the man, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“So, you three have been picked up for brawling at the Laughing Goblin Inn. How do you plead?” intoned Cadorna.

“Guilty, Councilman,” said Ren, holding his head high. He reasoned that if their sentence were too severe, he could always use his lockpicking skills to escape. The worst sentence meted out in Phlan was being thrown over the city walls at night, but that possibility seemed remote, considering the relatively minor nature of their offense. They would undoubtedly be held in a cell for at least a little while before anything so drastic happened, and Ren could get them out.

“Guilty, Councilman,” Tarl said. The cleric knew that the high cleric of the temple of Tyr held a position on the council. Tarl expected that he could appeal to him for leniency for himself and his two friends if need be.

“Guilty—that is, if brawling means defending yourself and trying to get away from a fight you didn’t start, Councilman,” Shal said.

This brought smiles to more than a few faces in the crowded room, including that of the presiding councilman. “Yes, well … Ah, be that as it may …” Cadorna was startled by the temerity of the woman and the confidence of the two men. He began to hope that these three would become the first to survive his test.

“The council’s main function is not punishment in the customary sense, but rather giving lawbreakers such as yourselves incentive for serving the community. We provide them with missions allowing them to challenge and attempt to overcome the evil that lurks in the ruins around the civilized portion of the city. For your sentence, the three of you will undertake such a mission. Thorn Island, which is located south of Civilized Phlan, across the bay, has for too long been avoided by the good merchants of Phlan. There are purported to be monsters inhabiting Sokol Keep, the fortress that occupies much of the island’s surface, and these monsters are said to make sailing in the proximity of the island all but impossible. You are charged with the task of discovering the secret of the darkness that makes Sokol Keep and Thorn Island uninhabitable. Bring back any information that may be of benefit to us in recovering the island. If you are successful in this venture, you will not only have fulfilled the terms of your sentence, but you will also be rewarded by the council. For now, you are released on your own recognizance.” Cadorna signaled to the watch warden.

“The Tenth Councilman has spoken. Next case,” the watch warden declared, and he ushered the three companions out of the council chambers.

As the three made their way back to the Laughing Goblin, they spoke nervously of what the morning would bring. They also exchanged tales of their battle experience—or lack of it—and Tarl and Shal told Ren much of what they had told each other about their activities during the last few days. By the time they reached the inn, they were laughing like old friends. After shaking hands with Shal and Tarl and taking a last longing glance at Shal, Ren parted to go to his room in the loft above the stables. Tarl saw Shal to her room and then returned to the Temple of Tyr, where he accepted the hospitality of his brothers in the faith for what little remained of the night.