Pool of Radiance

5 Sokol Keep

None of the three slept well. Shal had come to Phlan for one reason only—to avenge the death of her mentor—and so far, she had not even gotten to Denlor’s tower. Shal hadn’t planned on being sent on any mission for the town council.

Tarl, too, was anxious. When Tarl checked on Anton that night, the big man voiced two words, but they were “no” and “die,” and his glazed eyes looked haunted. Tarl couldn’t help but think his friend was even nearer to death. Tarl’s only hope for quieting his feelings of guilt and helplessness was to take the time he needed to prepare mentally and spiritually for his return to the graveyard to regain the hammer. He had not counted on being required to “recover” Thorn Island, but he would make the best use he could out of the town council mission.

Ren, on the other hand, was actually excited about the expedition to Thorn Island. For the first time in a year, he had a clear goal in mind—an assigned goal, granted, but a goal nonetheless. And he would be among interesting company besides.

Tarl awoke before dawn and spent time preparing his armor in quiet meditation, as was the custom of his faith, contemplating the rightness of his motivations, and focusing on the need to display bravery and skill to the honor of Tyr. The ritual of his meditation was broken more than once by the memory of the screams of his brethren at the hands of the undead, the image of the vampire mocking him, the humiliation of giving up the sacred Hammer of Tyr, and the nightmare of Anton’s flesh sizzling at the impact of the unholy symbol from the Abyss.

Tarl shook his head to clear it of such thoughts and said a final prayer to Tyr, thanking him for providing companionship as he sought to hone his skills until he would be ready to make his return to the stronghold of the vampire and demand the return of the hammer.

As the sun cleared the rooftop of the temple and its light touched the back of his neck, Tarl felt invigorated. Surely it was a sign that his god had renewed his clerical powers. He stood and stretched, relishing the feel of his freshly oiled chain mail adjusting itself to his form. Picking up his backpack, shield, and war hammer, he whispered the word “Ready” and set off to find his friends—and his destiny.

Ren, too, was observing a ritual—that of a ranger-turned-thief. First he checked the sharpness of the two jewel-handled daggers in his boots, bittersweet reminders of Tempest. She had given him the daggers as a gift some years ago, and he had later had two ioun stones from the take for which she was killed concealed inside their jeweled hilts. Ren thought of the daggers as Right and Left, in keeping with his usual straightforward line of thinking. As always, the blades were keen enough to split a baby’s hair. Ren went on to inspect his lockpicks, fire flask, hinge oil, climbing hooks, and door wedges. All seemed to be in perfect order. His nine throwing daggers and his two short swords, on the other hand, were dull and required sharpening. As a ranger, roaming the woodlands, Ren had preferred the longbow and long sword to short swords, but since he had turned to thieving in the streets of Waterdeep with Tempest, he preferred weapons that brought him up close and personal.

After checking his other basic supplies, Ren pulled out the small amber-inlaid chest he had carried with him from Waterdeep. He brushed a layer of dust from its surface and chided himself for not taking better care of the container that held the most important tool of his trade. After disarming the three traps designed to keep intruders from the box, Ren lifted the cover.

A sensation akin to an electrical charge coursed up Ren’s spine as he touched the enchanted gauntlets. “It’s been far too long since we were together,” Ren whispered. Carefully he pulled on the jet-black gloves. As they warmed to the temperature of his skin, their color and texture changed to match his tanned skin perfectly. He held his hands up admiringly. No one would ever know he was wearing gloves. He fitted his favorite lock-pick into the palm of his right glove, and it disappeared into the perfectly camouflaged surface. Then he tucked a pouch of sneezing powder under the right glove. Where there should have been a bulge, there was only his wrist. The magical gloves not only protected his hands, but more than that, they also added a measure of speed and dexterity to his movements.

Ren joined his hands together, cracked his knuckles, and then reached for his black leather armor. He smiled wistfully as he lifted the durable featherweight vest. He could remember the day Tempest had stolen it for him—and how she’d taken it off him that same night. After checking the fastenings, Ren slipped into the armor. He caught sight of his reflection on the polished surface of a copper planter, and he let out a low whistle. It had been a long time since he looked that good. “This one’s for you, Tempest,” he said softly. “And when this is done, I’ll get that bastard who killed you….”

With everything in place, he was ready for the final step in his ritual. He stood with his feet wide apart and began the first moves in a slow and complicated set of exercises. Shal Bal would have recognized them as a wizard’s trance relaxation routine. Tarl would have called it a Dan muscle stimulation. Ren simply called it the last thing he had to do.

Like Tarl, Shal had been up since before dawn, memorizing spells she thought she might need. The last she struggled with was one Ranthor had taught her in recent months, which was called Web of Entrapment. Dipping into the Cloth of Many Pockets, Shal easily found the necessary components for the spell. She smiled, aware once again of how well her master had provided for her. “I hope to make you proud, Ranthor,” she whispered softly.

She donned the fine leathers she had bought yesterday and her cloak, as well. “This mission isn’t what I had in mind, but it will be an adventure,” Shal said aloud, talking half to herself, half to the spirit of her mentor. “My first adventure into the ‘real’ world. I don’t suppose you packed ‘adventure equipment’ into this cloth, did you, Ranthor?” She repeated the words and then reached inside the cloth. Amazing! she thought as she pulled out item after item—a pair of daggers, a rod with a perpetual light at the tip, an odd belt with a seemingly unending array of sheaths and pouches, a leather purse filled with an assortment of common spell components, and a small bag of flour.

“Flour? I can guess what everything else is for, but why the flour?”

Shal reached into the final pocket and found a tiny scroll. She unfurled it and discovered a note written in Ranthor’s fluid script: The flour is there to reveal what is invisible. You should have known that, Apprentice.

“My teacher, you truly knew me too well. I wish you could meet my two new friends,” she sighed.

Shal took a deep breath and paused for a last moment to prepare mentally for the test she must pass before making her way to Denlor’s tower. She wondered if perhaps Tarl and Ren might help her when—if—they returned from Sokol Keep.

She found perfect stowing places for her spell components, rods, daggers, and magical cloth on the oddly designed belt. Shal held the belt up wistfully before buckling it, aware that it might have gone around her former self twice. Now, she needed to use the last buckle hole. When she’d pulled it snug, she marveled at the fact that it was virtually weightless once it was secured. Finally she practiced drawing the Staff of Power from the magical cloth. The six-foot-tall staff looked more than a little odd coming out of the small square of indigo cloth, but it came easily to her hand every time she asked for it. She almost laughed at the thought of employing the staff or any of her magical items on real enemies. “Yes, Ranthor, this is me, Shal—the same Shal who was afraid of a Burning Hands spell.”

Ren was already in the common room, talking with Sot, when Shal came downstairs. He bit his lip when he saw the way she’d pulled her hair back. A large copper clip lifted her auburn hair off her face, accenting her high, flushed cheekbones, without even beginning to tame the wild red tresses that raged down her back. It was not a style Tempest had ever used, but it was stunning, and it made Ren see Shal for the first time as having a beauty unique to her and not tied up in his memories. “Good morning, Shal. You look wonderful!”

Shal blushed and smiled. “Good morning!” Shal stopped and stood stock still at the bottom of the stairs, staring at Ren. The self-described ranger-thief, whose body had been hidden yesterday in a mangy, baggy tunic and pants held up by a drawstring, was now dressed from head to foot in body-fitting black, oiled leather. His physique was impressive, not at all that of the dumpy barkeep Shal had conversed with the day before. Whereas yesterday Ren’s blond hair had been matted to his head, today it shone a honey gold, cascading smoothly to his shoulders. His blue eyes glimmered, their deep color intensified by the brilliant blue of the gemstones set in the shoulder pads of his black armor. Shal noticed, too, that concealed cleverly on his person was a veritable armory. Strategically stowed for quick access were knives, daggers, two short swords, and several devices Shal couldn’t attempt to name. “I—I hardly recognize you,” she managed to say.

“Me neither,” echoed Sot, eyeing the big man. “Ain’t he a sight, though. I guess I’ll have to be puttin’ up a sign for some new help around here.” His expression changed suddenly as he realized how his words might be interpreted. “Not because you won’t be coming back from the island, of course. I just mean that I … I can see you’ve got more important things to do with yourself than waiting on tables.”

Ren smiled and pulled out a stool for Shal from behind the bar.

Shal smiled, too, touched by Sot’s obvious concern for Ren. Then she shivered suddenly. It was possible, perhaps even likely, that they would be killed. She hadn’t realized that she had been avoiding the thought. She let out a slow breath and turned her mind to more immediate concerns. “Is Tarl here yet?” she asked as she started to sit down.

“Yeah. He just went out for a minute to check on your horse,” Sot replied.

Shal slapped one hand up to her mouth. “Cerulean! Excuse me … I should be seeing to my own horse. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Before Shal even reached the stable, the familiar was bombarding her with snide remarks. Oh, sure, off on an adventure, and you’re going to leave me cooling my heels in this pig sty. No, worse—you’d forgotten you even had a familiar, a faithful magical steed prepared to serve you regardless of the risk….

“Cerulean, I’m sorry. I’ve been so wrapped up in things that I didn’t even think to tell you about the trip I must make. I promise to have the innkeeper tend to you while I’m gone,” Shal said as she approached the huge horse’s stall.

Unnoticed by Shal, Tarl had entered the stable with a sack of corn fodder to spread in the horse’s trough. “Good morning, Shal,” he said, looking at her rather strangely. “Apologizing to your horse now, eh? I gathered yesterday that you were pretty chummy with him, but—”

“But he’s not a horse—” Shal began.

I’m not? Cerulean’s telepathic message interrupted Shal’s thought.

“I mean, he is a horse, but he’s more than that…. Oh, I don’t know what I mean! Could you … could you excuse us for a minute, Tarl?”

Tarl looked oddly at Shal once again and shrugged. Then he turned and headed slowly for the door, muttering all the while. “No problem, whatever, Shal. I don’t rate even so much as a ‘Good morning,’ but the horse gets a moment in private with you. That’s just fine,” he said, obviously a little confused.

As soon as Tarl closed the door, Shal turned to face her familiar. “You can’t come, Cerulean,” she insisted. “We’re taking a boat. We’ll probably have to scale walls. There’s no place to—”

No place to put me? Have you forgotten your legacy from Ranthor already? Not that I like being put in that thing, mind you. As I said before, it’s awfully dark in there. But if I’m not with you, I can’t possibly warn you of any danger, can I?

Shal threw up her hands. So much for feeling on top of things. How forgetful could she be? She pulled the Cloth of Many Pockets from her belt and held it out toward Cerulean. “So how do we go about this? For some reason I seem to have trouble picturing a great big horse like you jumping into one of these tiny little pockets.”

Just stand back and watch!

Shal opened the stall gate and backed up against the stable wall, holding out the small piece of cloth. To her horror, the giant horse began to paw the ground, then charged toward her, its ears flat against its head and its nostrils flaring. Just as she was certain she would be smashed against the wall, Cerulean reared, dived, and poured like so much liquid into one of the pockets in the cloth.

I hate doing that. I hope you can see why now. The familiar’s mental communication was muffled slightly by the cloth.

“You hate it! I’m amazed Ranthor didn’t die of a heart attack long ago! I hope your entrances into the outside world are a bit less dramatic. By the way, can you get out of there if I don’t summon you?”

You would have to ask that. Indeed I can—as long as you don’t tell me I can’t.

Shal looked down at the indigo cloth as she tucked it back into place inside her belt. She was about to reply again when she realized how foolish she must look-would look—if anyone were watching her, so she decided to try her hand at telepathy. I won’t tell you you can’t, but rest assured that if I find you in my lap at some awkward moment, you’ll be back in the dark until further notice. Understand?

Quite clear, Mistress.

And don’t sneer when you say that word! Shal knew her telepathic thought hit home when the familiar, for once, didn’t try to have the last word.

Tarl and Ren were just sitting down to breakfast with Sot when Shal came back. “Save any for me?” she asked, her appetite sparked as she entered to the smell of hot biscuits and porridge.

Sot looked on with a bemused smile as Tarl and Ren stumbled over each other to pull out a stool for Shal, but the young mage didn’t even notice. She was too worried about how to seat her much-enlarged frame down gracefully on the quaint stool. She wondered as she watched Tarl and Ren resume their seats how men could always sit down without looking awkward, no matter how big they were.

Tarl poured her a cup of milk and offered her the biscuits.

Ren leaned forward and began to speak eagerly. “Sot here says he had a grandfather who was doing guard duty at Sokol Keep during the time of the Dragon Run.”

Sot interrupted. “He was a guard there at the time, but he wasn’t on duty when the dragons struck. Otherwise, he never coulda given this to my dad.” So saying, Sot pulled a heavy bronze medallion out from beneath his shirt.

Tarl sucked in his breath as he saw the bronze piece. Quickly he plunked down the bowl of porridge he was handing to Shal, nearly spilling it, and extended his hand out toward Sot. “May I see that, please?”

“Sure.” Sot lifted the thick chain up over his head and handed the medallion across the table to Tarl.

“Do you know what this medallion is?” Tarl asked excitedly, running his fingers over its embossed surface and examining the inscriptions on either side of it.

Sot shook his head. “Why, no … I never did find out what that symbol on it stood for. It’s just somethin’ I’ve held on to since I was a kid ’cause my dad told me it was from my granddad.”

“It’s a special holy symbol of Tyr, the god I serve.” Tarl pulled out his own holy symbol and held the two up next to each other for comparison. The icon depicted on the front of each—a war hammer topped by a scale—was identical, but the runes were different. “Your grandfather must have been a cleric of Tyr. But he was in a sect that I’ve only heard about. They were said to have been very devout in their faith.”

“All I know is that my father always said Granddad was a guard at Sokol Keep. I guess I’d heard that there’d been a temple at the keep, but I never knew my grandfather was connected with it.” Sot pointed at the medallion. “Would that medal be of any use to you, seein’ as how you’re a cleric and all?”

Tarl’s heart leaped. “Absolutely! The power of my god flows through such holy symbols. They help protect the wearer.”

“Well, seein’ as how you’re the ones going off to a place that’s supposed to be overrun by ghosts an’ spirits, why don’t you take it? You can give it back to me if you—when you come back.” As he spoke, Sot reached out and folded Tarl’s hand over the medallion.

“Thank you most heartily!” Tarl said sincerely. “I’ll put this to good use.”

“Now, don’t be gettin’ mushy on me, young fella. You’ve got devils to face, and the town guards’ll be throwin’ you to ’em if you don’t get a move on. You’d all best be goin’ before they have to come for you.” Sot shooed the three out the door and called out to wish them luck as they started down the street.

Driven by nervous energy, the three quickly made their way to the city’s docks. The shoreline was crowded with vendors selling wares from incoming shipments, and the docks were lined with boats and small ships. The water of the Moonsea and the southeastern edge of the Bay of Phlan was a brilliant tourmaline blue. To the east, the waters of the Stojanow belched into the bay, spreading their putrid stench into the bright, clear water.

No one had to tell the three where Thorn Island was. It was easily visible from the shore, and they could see why merchants sailed wide to avoid it. A dark shadow hung over the small, bleak island. It was as if, as they turned their heads to scan the horizon, someone dropped a translucent black scarf over their faces just as the island came into view. Almost as ominous were the charred walls of Sokol Keep itself, which jutted up, gray and desolate-looking, from the low slate cliffs that made up the island’s shoreline.

“That councilman did say something about a reward in this for us if we bring back information that helps them to recover the island, didn’t he?” Ren asked.

“Personally, if we ever return from that place, the only reward I want is to serve Tyr,” said Tarl looking out at the blot of desolation defiling the bay.

Shal stared at the fortress with a mixture of fear and curiosity. “My master told me about such places—places enveloped in such darkness that they appear shadowed even in bright sunlight. He said it was almost always a sign that there were undead existing in torment.”

Tarl blanched at the word “undead.” He would rather face an army of orcs than another specter or wraith … or vampire. “Shal, I want you to wear this.” Tarl held out the medallion he had received from Sot. “I have my own holy symbol. I can probably protect Ren for a little while if we face any undead, but I don’t have the skills to keep them away from both of you. I don’t know how good you are at your magic, but with a holy symbol of Tyr protecting you, you should be even safer.”

Shal removed the chain from Tarl’s hand and looped it loosely around her neck. “Thank you, Tarl,” she said softly.

“C’mon, you two,” urged Ren. “If we’re not prepared for the worst now, we never will be.” Ren’s eyes scanned the docks, searching for a boat for hire. He didn’t expect to find anyone who would take them to Thorn Island. If they knew the destination, there might be precious few who’d be willing to even let them rent a boat. In fact, Ren fully expected that they might have to buy a boat outright.

Ten inquiries and an hour later, Ren finally found a crusty old boatman willing to part with a decrepit rowboat. “You’ll get your five silvers deposit returned when I get my boat back,” he cackled. The gnarly old man threw his head back and laughed hard. “But I won’t expect to be seein’ it ag’in till I get to the Abyss!” he called, laughing even harder.

As they started toward the boat to load their gear, a trumpet sounded behind them. They turned to see the trumpeter and a town crier, awaiting the approach of Porphyrys Cadorna on a speckled horse with a great feather plume attached to its bridle.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” the crier called loudly. “All stand and await the approach of the honorable Porphyrys Cadorna, Tenth Councilman of the City of Phlan.” The herald stood at attention while vendors, shoppers, and boatsmen milled about curiously.

Cadorna reined his mount to a stop immediately in front of Shal, Ren, and Tarl. He waved his hand over the three and let out a low whistle. The big innkeep, in particular, looked striking in his fitted armor, and together the three looked formidable. “I am impressed indeed,” said Cadorna, casting his eyes over the group. “Perhaps, unlike your unfortunate predecessors, you will be the first group worthy of the council’s trust. You are charged, as was explained to you last evening, with the task of discovering the secret surrounding the darkness that makes Sokol Keep and Thorn Island uninhabitable.”

Ren stifled a caustic reply. He knew that “worthy of the council’s trust” could be translated “who might come back alive,” but there was nothing to be gained by challenging the man. At least they weren’t being tossed over the wall of the city at night, which was widely rumored to be the fate of some criminals. “I don’t suppose you’d care to foot the bill for the boat, would you, Your Honor?”

“If you bring it back, I’ll buy it from you … for an excellent price,” said Cadorna with a grin. “Which reminds me … it has come to my attention that the Lord of the Ruins himself has somehow gotten wind of your impending venture. I suspect he’ll send some of the rabble from beyond the wall to harass you—orcs, goblins, kobolds perhaps. Surely nothing the three of you can’t handle.”

“The Lord of the Ruins?” Shal asked, wondering if her companions knew whom Cadorna was referring to.

Ren started to reply, but Cadorna quickly cut him off. “The hordes of monsters that plague our fair city are obviously controlled by someone or something, or they surely would have killed each other by now. Occasionally hobgoblins, orcs, or other humanoids we capture make mention of their leader, the ‘Lord of the Ruins.’ From all accounts, his power is awesome. Naturally he fights every effort of the council to regain sections of Old Phlan.”

Cadorna paused, as if expecting some sort of response. When there was none, he plunged ahead. “Of course, I’m sure the Lord of the Ruins would have no way of anticipating a party of three such as yourselves.”

“Thank you, Councilman,” said Shal, comforted by his apparent confidence in them. “However, what we’ve heard of Sokol Keep”—she pointed to the island—“and what we’ve seen are hardly encouraging.”

Cadorna’s face formed its most sincerely sympathetic expression. “I’d be lying if I told you there was nothing to fear on Thorn Island. In the months since I’ve sat on the council, four parties have undertaken this mission, and none has … ah … been successful. But I sincerely believe that your chances for success are greater than those of the parties who have preceded you. I am, of course, here to see that you fulfill your sentence, but I am also here to wish you a safe and fruitful mission.”

Shal and Tarl bowed in the manner customary when taking leave of an official. Ren simply turned on his heels, stepped down into the boat, and snugged it up close to the mooring so the other two could board more easily.

Cadorna remained to watch as they rowed out into the bay. They just might be the ones I’ve been waiting for, he thought. I’ve waited too long for the chance to recover the dignity and position of the Cadorna family … and the fortune that is rightfully mine. If they succeed, it’ll be an ideal situation. They’ll receive a reward and recognition from the council. Phlan will prosper because shipping will increase greatly. I’ll be rewarded and will gain power within the council. And the Lord of the Ruins will be grateful because I tried to warn him! Cadorna shuddered at the indignities he had to bear to communicate with the Lord of the Ruins—sending messages through slime-bellied hobgoblins—but he grinned from ear to ear when he thought of the rewards. In exchange for passing on the simple message that a small, ill-matched party of three was headed for Sokol Keep on a reclamation mission, a highly promising meeting had been arranged between Cadorna and a certain sensual, doe-eyed woman, who just happened to be the daughter of the head councilman from Thentia. Still, Cadorna couldn’t wait for the day when the Lord of the Ruins would be forced to send messengers to him, instead of the other way around.

Shal was watching Ren row when they entered the dark veil that shadowed the island. She immediately felt her breath constrict, almost as if someone had pushed hard against her lungs. She thought at first that it could be her own fear finally getting the best of her, but a glance at the others told her that they felt it, too.

Tarl leaned forward in the boat and held up his holy symbol. “Bless me with the strength of your faith, Tyr. Grant us power over the darkness that reigns over this place.”

Whether coincidence or not, Shal immediately felt a loosening of her breathing. “Your god serves you well, friend.”

“I just hope that’s a sign that you’re the right man to have along on this trip,” said Ren, taking a deep breath.

Tarl didn’t respond. His prayer had been a reaction to his own terror. The pressure on his lungs had been a vivid reminder of the powerlessness he had felt that day in the graveyard. The undead seemed to have the power to suck a person’s very life energies, making breathing, even the beating of the heart, things that couldn’t be taken for granted. Tarl couldn’t help feeling contempt for himself for not being able to help Anton or his other brothers when they needed him. He spoke once more, silently this time, to his god. My prayer was born out of fear for myself, but you responded nonetheless. Let this day enhance my faith and add a measure to my experience so I can better serve you and return to you and your servants what is rightfully yours.

Tarl lifted his head and pointed. “Over there, Ren. There’s a break in the rocks.”

“Not much of an opening,” said Shal, eyeing the small opening to which Tarl was pointing. “Are you sure you can get through there, Ren?”

“I’m about as handy in a boat as either of you are, which isn’t saying much,” Ren replied. “But I’ll jump out and pull the boat to shore if I have to.”

Shal laughed nervously. Ever since breakfast this morning, she had been stealing glances at Ren when she didn’t think he was looking. She hadn’t missed the fact that his ruddy complexion had grown paler as they drew closer to their destination. “I’d use a Navigation spell if I only had one,” she said. “But since I don’t, you’d better pull on those oars if you don’t want us to smash into those rocks.”

Ren managed to maneuver the boat between the two rocks unscathed, and in a few minutes they had beached the ancient rowboat on a sandy segment of shoreline.

“So we’re here. Now what?” asked Shal, looking anxiously toward the low, sheer cliffs that made the island a natural fortress.

“There’s a stone stairway over there,” said Tarl, pointing down the shoreline.

“Why don’t we just knock and see if anybody’s home?” Ren offered.

“Save the sarcasm,” Shal scolded. “Do you have another idea?”

Ren reached into his pack and pulled out one of his favorite thieving tools. “Simple but effective,” he said, holding up a three-clawed hook with a long, coiled rope to it. “I’d vote for following the shoreline a couple thousand feet and then making our way up somewhere where it’s secluded.”

“Agreed,” said Tarl, realizing that Ren’s suggestion made good sense. Why announce their presence to whoever—or whatever—waited up there?

The air was uncannily still as they made their way along the shoreline at the base of the cliff. As they went, they spotted wreckage from several small sailing craft. Rotting remains of bodies dead for weeks, perhaps months, lay in grotesque attitudes amidst the debris.

“They may have run aground in storms. I’ve heard the island is practically invisible at night.” Ren paused and pointed up toward the cliff. “Looks like there’s a break in the stone face up there. This looks like as good a place as any.” He began to twirl the rope above his head in ever-lengthening circles. “One, two, three …” he counted softly, and then he released the grapnel into the air. It arched up over the lip of the cliff and landed with a muffled clink. Ren pulled the rope taut and then tested his full body weight against it. The rope held firmly in place.

“After you,” he said, bowing quickly to Tarl and Shal.

“I—I’ll never be able to climb that,” Shal said, staring up at the cliff’s face. “Maybe I could use a Jump spell or even a Spider Climb, but I don’t have the arm strength to climb that rope.”

“You don’t have the arm strength?” Tarl reached out and circled his hands around Shal’s muscular upper arm. “If you can’t climb this rope, we’d better turn around and take our chances with Cadorna, because Ren and I will never make it either.” Tarl regretted his words even before he finished speaking them.

Shal was looking down with distaste at the circumference of her arm where Tarl’s hands had touched it. “Thanks, Tarl. Perhaps for my next stunt you could have me arm-wrestle a dragon!” she snapped. “The only trouble is, these tree trunks growing out of my body aren’t mine!” Shal shook her arms in a violent shudder, as if by shaking them they might fall off and be replaced by the slender, petite arms that had once been hers.

Shal clenched her fists and faced the rope. She had seen her two companions looking on with what she was sure must be pity, and she berated herself for her own vanity. “There’ll be no more pity on my account, you two. Yes, you’re right. With these arms, I can climb this stupid rope!” She grabbed hold of it and began hoisting herself up, arm over arm. Her movements were smooth and effortless, and before she reached the top, she was actually marveling at the ease of her own movement.

Ren stood dumbfounded at the bottom of the cliff, anchoring the rope, his face a mask of confusion. Tarl’s face bore the same expression of bafflement.

“D’you suppose we should follow that woman?” Ren asked, gazing up at Shal.

Tarl didn’t answer. Instead, he started up the rope. Ren followed, and soon the three squatted together atop the cliff, facing the charred walls of the ancient fortress of Sokol Keep.

The blackened walls were encrusted with sea salts. Molds, weeds, tall grasses, and saplings were doing their best to infiltrate the stone wall, growing profusely from large cracks in the coarse blocks. Beyond the tall grasses, at the end of the keep farthest from where the three stood, they could see the top of the stairway Tarl had sighted from below. No one waited at the top. A wide pathway led from the stairs to the keep’s dilapidated wooden gates.

“If it weren’t for the dark veil that hovers over this place, it would almost be pleasant,” Shal said quietly. “It seems so quiet, so peaceful.”

“The aura of evil is strong here,” Tarl whispered back. “Can’t you feel it? I don’t think we’re going to fool whatever inhabits this place by trying to come in the back door.”

“Maybe not,” whispered Ren, “but I still think we should take our time and have a good look at the grounds before going in.”

“No,” said Shal. “Tarl’s right. If there are undead here, we aren’t going to surprise them no matter which way we come from.”

Ren glanced at Shal, surprised by her forcefulness. “Okay, lady. Whatever you say.” Striding right up to the front door went against every thieving bone in Ren’s body, but he could feel a rush of excitement as he pulled out one of his short swords and prepared to lead the way. “Stay behind me, on either side,” he whispered to the others. “Move with the grass, not against it. Try not to leave a trail. Like this,” he said, parting the grass gently with his extended sword and stepping lightly so as not to make a sound.

Ren passed through the tall grass with the ease and silence of a leaf floating to earth. Shal and Tarl did their best to imitate his stealthy movements, but despite their efforts, the grass made a distinct rustling sound with their passing. Suddenly, without warning, Ren came to an abrupt stop. Ten feet in front of him, a skeleton hand was pushing its way up through the ground. Clods of earth flew up in all directions as a skeleton warrior burst from the ground and began to walk toward them. Dirt and fungus clung inside its eye sockets and to the remnants of its leather armor. Sow bugs, beetles, and grubs scurried to the ground by the hundreds as the skeleton strode forward, and maggots streamed from the creature’s open mouth.

Tarl shook off his own panic and charged in front of Ren, holding out his holy symbol. “Die, creature! Rest! Do us no harm!” The skeleton came to a halt, reached forward one last time, and collapsed to the ground.

Ren walked up to the remains of the skeleton warrior and started peeling off its decayed armor.

Shal stifled a gasp. “By the gods, Ren, what are you doing?”

“Looking for loot. What do you think?”

“You can’t rob the dead!” Tarl exclaimed vehemently.

“It’s—it’s sacrilege!”

“It certainly can’t do any more harm than stealing from someone who’s alive. What’s he going to do with anything, anyway?” Ren asked, continuing to rummage through the creature’s remains. He found nothing under the armor, but then he noticed that one of the skeleton’s bony hands was clasped tight shut. Forcing it open, Ren removed a heavy bronze chain.

“Nice work, Brother Tarl. I think you just killed a friendly messenger. Take a look at this.” Ren held up the chain. An embossed medallion hung from it.

Tarl looked on in horror. Ren was right. The warrior had tried to offer them a medal of Tyr to wear inside the keep. Tarl let out a slow breath as he examined it. It was identical to the medallion Sot had given him, and it showed no sign of corrosion despite the years it must have spent in the ground. Tarl had let his fear get in the way of his faith.

He held the medallion skyward. “Great Tyr, the Even-Handed, God of Justice, once again you have demonstrated your presence with us. Forgive me for not recognizing your messenger.”

Tarl held the medallion out to Ren. “This is for you. I guess you didn’t need to steal it after all. He meant for you to have it.”

The wooden gates of the keep had fared poorly against the elements. Tarl had only to push, and the big doors swung open, revealing a large courtyard lined by the charred remnants of several buildings. In the center of the keep, reasonably unscathed by dragon fire, was an airy building filled with tables, probably the mess hall. To the right were the blackened shells of what appeared to have been the stable and blacksmith’s shops. The tallest building in the keep, and the only one built of stone, obviously the temple, stood in the far left corner of the courtyard, intact except for what must have been a wooden bell tower at the top. The wooden buildings in front of it had suffered extensive fire damage.

Here and there in the courtyard, the tall, unkempt grasses grew very thick, as if the blood and flesh of the men who had stood to face the dragons had nourished it. Tarl knew that the men living inside Sokol Keep must have died much as his brothers had in the graveyard-screaming in terror and without adequate defenses, pained beyond imagining by their own suffering and their inability to prevent what followed. No wonder a dark shadow hung over this place!

“Something’s been here—something alive,” Ren said softly. “And not long ago. See the way that grass is matted down over there on the left? There’s also a lingering smell that doesn’t fit this place. You remember what Cadorna said about the Lord of the Ruins sending troops to meet us? We need to watch our step.”

The three had gone no more than fifteen feet into the courtyard when clods of grass and earth started flying up everywhere. Screams and moans erupted all around them as dozens of skeleton warriors burst from the ground. More emerged from the buildings and ruins of the keep. All walked deliberately toward Ren and Tarl and Shal, their weapons raised. Ren pulled out his two short swords and planted himself in front of Shal. “We’ve got to get out of here—now!”

“No!” said Tarl firmly. “These are warrior clerics who serve my god. Hold up your medallions.”

Bony arms stretched out toward Shal from every side. Her body seemed to go cold, refusing to function normally. Her breath came in constricted gasps, as it had in the boat, but this time the pressure was even heavier. She had to fight merely to breathe, and she struggled even harder to regain control of her arms and hands so she could lift up the medallion.

Ren was shaking his head violently. “They can see the medallion on my chest, and it’s not stopping them! I’m getting me and Shal the hell out of here!”

Ren pushed the nearest of the skeletons back with one short sword. When a second skeleton started to wrap its bony hand around Shal’s arm, he raised the other sword and brought it down swiftly, chopping the creature’s hand off.

“Behind you!” Shal shouted. A large skeletal warrior, Ren’s equal in height, was directly behind him, about to swing at Ren with a rusty long sword.

Ren spun and met the swing with both short swords, but when he tried to push the creature back, he momentarily lost his balance when he stepped in one of the holes from which the vile monsters had emerged. Instantly another skeleton burst partway out of the earth and grabbed Ren’s legs from behind in its icy grip. Ren fell hard, but the skeleton did not release its grip. Instead, the bony fingers closed tighter and tighter, till Ren thought they would surely sever his legs.

Two more skeletal warriors had grabbed Shal, one by the right arm and one by the left. They were pulling in opposite directions.

Tarl was oblivious to Shal’s predicament. He was overwhelmed by the terror these creatures must have experienced before they died. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of brothers had been slaughtered here but remained undead, their lives unfulfilled. Like Tarl, they’d had no chance to complete their mortal missions. Their screams were his screams. Their pain was his pain. His mind was barraged by dozens of messages unsent to loved ones, and an untold number of emotions ranging from panic and terror to remorse and relief assaulted his psyche. Tarl lifted his holy symbol high. “Rest, brothers!” he shouted firmly. “As Tyr is my witness, we mean no harm!”

Again arid again, he repeated the words as he turned slowly in a circle, letting the reflection from the holy symbol of Tyr shine in every direction, touching each undead warrior. One by one, the skeletons lowered their weapons to their sides. The three holding Ren and Shal released their grips. When the two of them held up their medallions as well, the rest of the skeletons closing in on the party halted their advance. They appeared to remain agitated and continued to move about, but it was obvious they were no longer interested in harming Tarl, Ren, or Shal.

“Whew!” Shal breathed quietly. “I’ve heard of clerics turning the undead, but I’ve never heard of anybody turning a whole army of them!”

Tarl heard Shal’s words, but this was no time to celebrate. “Something or someone is keeping these men in motion, but I think we’ll be able to explore in peace now,” he said.

From where he lay on the ground, Ren did his best to quell a chill of revulsion at the word “men.” He realized that Tarl was somehow seeing human characteristics in these rotting, maggot-covered creatures. “My legs and ankles feel as if they’re frostbitten.”

“I’m sorry, my friend,” said Tarl, and he rushed quickly to the big man’s side.

Shal beat him there by a step. Immediately she pulled Ren’s leggings loose to reveal several white-yellow rings of nearly lifeless skin circling Ren’s ankles. She didn’t question Ren’s self-diagnosis. Her own two arms had felt a biting, bone-chilling cold when the skeletons had grabbed her. When the cleric reached forward to lay hands on Ren, Shal stopped him. “No, Tarl, save your strength. I have just the thing.” Shal pulled from her belt one of the healing potions she had helped Ranthor prepare. “We’ll need your powers soon enough if one of us gets hurt badly. For frostbite, this should do nicely.” Shal daubed the pasty liquid on the rings of whitened flesh. Within seconds, a healthy pink color began to return to the affected area.

Even after Ren was able to stand, the memory of the icy grip was still with him. He found walking among the skeletons unnerving, medallions or no, but he forced himself to lead the small group through the keep. Nothing but kindling remained of the first building on the left, probably once a storage shed. The roof of the second structure was totally burned off, but the base of the building was still intact. As they approached the building, the skeletons wandering in the courtyard converged from all directions. A number of the undead warriors followed the party of three, then assumed gruesome positions of death among what remained of the cots that lined the walls.

“What—what are they doing?” gasped Shal, sickened by the sight of the creatures.

“They are showing you … showing us … how they died,” Tarl replied, once again feeling the men’s anguish and frustration. “Many of them died here, in their beds. They never had a chance to prove themselves.” Tarl tried to describe the myriad of sensations, from frustration to horror, that were somehow being communicated to him.

They moved on to the other end of the building, but found nothing new. As they passed the corner of the building, they noticed that they had gained a new entourage of earth- and fungus-covered companions. Without touching any of the three, the new group of skeletons seemed to be pushing them on to the next doorway in the complex. They entered the door cautiously and found themselves in a foyer. They peered through an open doorway off to the left, and as soon as they did, a dozen or so undead warriors brushed past them and began moaning and crying in an almost deafening dirge.

“The high clerics’ quarters,” said Tarl, as if his companions had requested an explanation. “The ghostly remains of these men suffer the most, because they were unable to protect the fledgling clerics they vowed to safeguard.”

Ahead, still whole and beautiful, was an ornately carved double door that bore the hammer and balance of Tyr, the Even-Handed. Tarl felt compelled to enter the temple, but Ren was already stepping cautiously through an open doorway to the right.

Tarl and Shal followed. Just as the three companions entered, the tongue of a giant frog shot out, circled Ren’s leg, and tripped the big man. Tarl rushed forward and slammed the man-sized creature’s head hard with his hammer. The weapon merely glanced off the frog’s wet, slippery skin. It took two more blows before Tarl’s hammer connected solidly. When it did, the creature’s flesh buckled and splattered under the force of his blow, and it fell to the wet floor, quivering. Ren hacked its encircling tongue off and leaped to his feet, just in time to face six more of the gigantic amphibians. He hurled a dagger at the frog closest to him. Like Tarl’s hammer, the knife deflected off the tough, slimy hide of the frog.

Behind him, Shal was muttering something in the language of magic. As she finished her incantation, she tossed a handful of powder past Ren and extended her hand toward the lead frog. Immediately it shrank to normal size. Ren kicked it with his boot and sent it flying up at one of the waiting monster frogs. The creature shot its huge tongue out, and in an instant, it slurped the small frog down whole.

The remaining frogs, caught up in the prospect of a feeding frenzy, began to leap willy-nilly—up, sideways, backward—in a primitive, instinctive dance designed to freeze their victims in terror. In a frantic reaction to his own revulsion, Tarl lashed out again and again with his hammer, but it only slipped off the sides of the giant frogs. When one got too close, though, he bashed it with his shield with all his might and sent it slumping to the floor, where he finished it off with a blow from his hammer. A wave of nausea surged through him as he watched the frog’s legs twitch wildly, independent of its pulverized head.

Shal, meanwhile, had called for her staff, and she was swinging it wildly at the huge slimy creatures. Swoosh! Thwack! The walls echoed with the sounds of her brutal attack, and the strength of her frenzied swings was so great that when one connected solidly, it was as if Shal had folded the center of the monster’s body in two. Its flesh folded over the staff and stayed that way until Shal could pull the staff out. She must have broken the creature’s spine, for when she removed the staff, the monster’s body folded grotesquely in the opposite direction. Just as Shal freed her staff, another giant frog came leaping toward her. In an almost instinctive defensive measure, she pointed her staff straight up at the flying monster and then watched in horror as it skewered itself on the staff’s sharp end and slid down over her arms. She screamed loud and long and immediately pulled back for all she was worth, extending her arms outward to get the disgusting animal away from her.

At that moment, Ren, who was fending off another frog, backed into the one Shal had just unskewered. The frog he was battling took advantage of the distraction to jump and land on top of him, squeezing his body against the body of the dead frog.

Ren became a human sandwich, folded deeply into the dead frog’s soft, quivering belly, and covered by the mass of the live frog. He flailed out in panic, slashing up, down, sideways, pushing frantically at both of the creatures as their guts began to ooze over him. Soon both frogs lay jerking spasmodically on the floor on either side of Ren, who was shaking the slime and gore from his arms and retching….

“Behind you!” Tarl yelled, but it was too late. The last of the frogs was leaping at Ren with a vengeance. It smacked into his back with a wet thwack and sent him sprawling into the back wall of the room. As he struck the wall, it collapsed, and Ren fell to the floor of the next room with the frog on top of him. Shal spoke the final words of a Magic Missile spell, and three projectiles shot from her fingertips and buried themselves in the cold flesh of the frog. It jerked to its death on top of Ren before Shal and Tarl could reach their friend and pull the creature off him.

When they finally got Ren out from under the giant amphibian, his complexion was a pasty white, and his black leathers and armor were dripping with blood and ocher-colored ooze.

“Are—are you okay?” Shal asked, anxiously releasing her tight hold on Ren’s hand.

Ren lay silent for more than a minute, then rose slowly and shook himself head to foot. “God, I need a bath! I’ve fought some of the most disgusting creatures in the Realms, and I’ve never felt this filthy….” He noticed their expressions of concern turning to relief. “Some valiant fighter, huh?” he asked, embarrassed.

“We should all stand up so well,” Tarl said sincerely. “For a minute there, I thought I was—”

“Hey, you two, come and take a look at this.” Shal was standing near the frog she had just killed, pointing at it. A grayish-green band encircled the creature’s broad, damp neck. If it hadn’t been for a triangle of silver that hung from it, the band would barely have been visible. The triangle, embossed with a small silver pyramid, glistened even in the dull light from the larger room. “It looks like a collar or something,” said Shal, gingerly reaching for the medallion.

Ren grabbed her outstretched hand with startling speed. “Don’t touch it!” he hissed. “Who knows what cursed master these god-awful animals served? That’s not a symbol I’m familiar with, but these creatures sure weren’t sent by anything friendly.”

“Look here!” whispered Tarl. He had come around the frog from the other side and was holding up the far end of the stretch of canvas on which Ren and the frog had landed. Underneath was a veritable armory of weapons—ball and chains, throwing hammers, daggers, throwing stars, axes, shields, armor. Most were rusted or corroded, but two items stood out from the rest: a dagger and a hammer, both of which shone as though a metalsmith had polished them the day before. Each glowed with an eerie green light, and each was in mint condition and obviously of top quality.

“Those wouldn’t glow like that unless there was some danger nearby,” hissed Ren. “My own daggers do the same.” He pulled Right from his boot, and sure enough, it was gleaming with a bluish light. “Listen …” whispered Ren. He pointed toward a gaping hole in the wall of the muddy room where the frogs lay dead. The sound of grating humanoid voices drifted through the air like the buzz of so many cicadas. Quickly Ren handed the hammer to Tarl, keeping the dagger for himself.

Together the three moved silently back into the larger room and worked their way along the wall to the opening. Ren crouched down and glanced cautiously through the hole, then quickly pulled back behind what remained of the wall. “There’s a lot of them—orcs, hobgoblins, kobolds … a real mixed lot,” he whispered. “Must be at least forty of them. We’ve got to get out of here—maybe back through the barracks and over the wall.”

Tarl shook his head. “We haven’t located what we came for,” he whispered. “Our information is only partial, and the undead still walk.”

“At least we know what kind of creatures are here,” argued Shal, also in a hushed voice. “We can tell the council and they can send troops.”

“No,” insisted Tarl. “I think we should talk with them and try to get more information about their leader.”

Ren tugged gently on Tarl’s collar. “You’re a nut case, my cleric friend. I speak orcish well enough to know that their idea of a pleasant conversation is to say, ‘Die, human scum!’ ” He tugged lightly on Tarl’s collar again and whispered with intensity, “Do you understand me? We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Get out of here?” The sharp, barking voice of a kobold sounded behind them. “Get out of here?” He let out a low chuckle, a perverted sound, like a dog growling.

Tarl and Shal turned to see a kobold strut through the doorway with an entourage of about two dozen orcs and goblins behind him. Ren watched as the troop of humanoids began to climb in through the hole in the wall.

“The party? The party? Is this the party?” snorted a fat orc, obviously, from his dress, a leader of the troop.

“Yes, master,” barked the kobold. “The three of them … ours for the taking for the Lord of the Ruins.”

The lead ore’s yellow, piggy eyes gleamed brightly, and he snorted again in his excitement. “Torture the party … kill the party … get big praise from the Lord of the Ruins!”

“Power to the pool!” shouted the kobold.

“Power to the pool!” Orcs and hobgoblins alike took up the chant. “Power to the pool!” All jabbed cudgels, axes, or swords into the air in time with the chant as they began to circle round the companions, who were pressed together in a small cluster, back to back.

“What’s that they’re chanting?” Tarl asked, looking to Ren for a translation.

“They’re getting ready to kill us, probably by torture, and they’re saying something over and over again about ‘Power to the pool,’ ” Ren replied.

Tarl tried to block out the jeering and chanting. He managed to concentrate long enough to cast a spell of Enthrallment. He had practiced the spell many times before, but he had never before tried it on a hostile group. If the spell were successful, the group of creatures would understand and be receptive to anything he said, at least for a short while.

“Tell me, friends,” he asked evenly, “to what pool do you refer?”

The kobold beamed, his tongue lolling over his yellow fangs like a panting canine. “Pool belongs to the Lord of the Ruins. He says to kill, we kill. Pool glows brighter. The Lord of the Ruins grows stronger. We grow stronger. We kill more. Nobody stops us … Power to the pool!” he shouted once more.

Others started to pick up the chant again, and Tarl could feel his control slipping. He waved his arms in a benevolent gesture. “Surely killing us can be of no value to your lord—or to the pool. Can’t we do something else to add power to the pool?”

Ren signaled Shal to brace herself for a mad dash. The chances of them escaping from this mob seemed slim to none, but now, while they were still calmed by Tarl’s spell, was the time to move if there was ever going to be any.

The pig-eyed leader suddenly stuck his dripping snout up close to Tarl’s face. “You have power stone? Ioun stone? Give us stone, you live. No stone, we kill. Power to the pool!”

“Ioun stone?” Tarl repeated, puzzled.

“No ioun stone?” the leader started to snort. “Kill! Kill them!”

The spell was broken. Tarl smashed his shield hard into the orc’s pig face and started swinging his hammer with a vengeance. Ren lunged forward, slashing and hacking madly with his short swords, parrying as he had never parried before to block cudgels and axes descending all around him.

Shal swung her staff high and brought it down hard, repeatedly, sending several humanoids within her range sprawling, but there were many more. She could not see, but could hear and sense, the flight of several daggers and arrows, weapons that all her swinging could not protect her against. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ren taken down by a vicious blow to his abdomen. Tarl was barely managing to keep the pressing masses of orcs and hobgoblins away from overwhelming him. She knew that she and the others would soon be beaten senseless.

An axe bit deep into her shoulder as she took her next swing. Her scream of pain and terror was voiceless … as was the cry of her familiar! The staff! The Staff of Power! Use it now!

“Halcyon!” shouted Shal, and she extended the staff toward the frenzied beasts around her. “Harak!” Brilliant electricity, nearly the color of amethyst, coursed up and down the staffs surface. Bolts of lightning arced out in all directions. She spoke another word, and small, purple balls of flame crackled from the tip, doubling in size with each inch they traveled. With yet another word, deafening thunder shook the building to its foundation. The screams of sizzling humanoids rose up everywhere. Shal turned, and more lightning bolts and fireballs flew from the staff. Doglike kobolds burned to charred stumps. The fatty flesh of orcs and goblins spattered and sizzled. Shal turned yet again, but this time there were no takers. The handful of unscathed humanoids that remained were bolting away as fast as they could go, barking, squealing, and screaming like wild animals fleeing a forest fire.

Shal slumped to the ground, her fists clenched white around the staff as blood spurted from the gash in her shoulder. She stared numbly at her two friends, each of whom was in turn staring open-mouthed at her.

All around them was wreckage. Shal’s lightning bolts had blasted huge holes in the building’s already damaged ceilings and walls, and the smoldering remains of dead humanoids lay everywhere. Shal slowly turned her head from side to side in disbelief, awed by the power she held within her grasp. She had never before killed, never been party to such wholesale destruction. She had also never been so consumed or driven by terror—fear for herself and fear for her companions—but she knew that she would react the same way again if confronted with the same situation. She looked at her friends, who were still staring at her in amazement.

When he could stir himself out of his shock, Tarl reached out and pressed his hands to Shal’s bloodied shoulder. The power of Tyr flowed warm and strong, and he could feel the healing surge through his fingertips. Once again he experienced an overwhelming bond to the red-haired fighter-mage. As he healed her, he somehow felt the key to his own wholeness.

Shal reached up and pressed her hands over Tarl’s. “Thank you. Please … please help Ren now.”

Tarl snatched his hands away, ashamed that he could have forgotten his other companion for even a moment. He placed one hand on each of Ren’s firm, muscular shoulders. Tarl could feel the pain of untold bruises, and he sensed internal damage where Ren had taken the blow to the stomach. Tarl waited for the healing warmth to flow through his hands. Once it did, he spoke. “You should feel better, but when we get back, you must rest. I can do little more.”

“I can’t think of a time when I’ve felt better,” said Ren cheerily, shaking himself from his own stunned silence. “I mean, what more can a fellow ask? You carry on friendly conversations with orcs, she packs a weapon that even the gods must find frightening, and then you patch us up besides. We’ve even managed to fulfill our mission and collect some bonus information for the council.”

“How’s that?” Tarl asked.

“The old armory, the stuff about the shiny pool where the boss fellow, that ‘Lord of the Ruins,’ gets his power—that wasn’t anything we agreed to dig up for Cadorna.”

“That’s true, but we still aren’t done here,” said Tarl.

“Not done!” exclaimed Shal. “I’ve had more than enough adventure for one day, thank you. Skeletons … oversized fly-slurpers … orcs and kobolds … You’ve got to understand, I used to get tired just dusting Ranthor’s laboratory.”

“But the skeletons … my brothers, the clerics of Tyr,” Tarl insisted. “They still walk the keep.”

“They seem pretty quiet, though,” said Ren. “You calmed them down.”

“Yes, but they’re not at rest. I can feel it! They’re still undead, tormented souls. I need to go to the temple and try to find out for myself what keeps them so agitated.”

Ren stood and reached his hand down to help Shal to her feet. “I guess we can take a tour of the temple with him, don’t you think? I mean, if it weren’t for Tarl, you and I probably would have been killed by the skeletons—that is, if the cloud over this place hadn’t killed us first.”

Shal gave Ren’s hand a squeeze, and then reached out and squeezed Tarl’s. “Let’s go, then,” she said. “I really think we should get out of this place before dark.”

Skeleton warriors were still milling in the entryway, but they did nothing to stop the three. Tarl lifted the latch on the ornately carved door to the temple and pushed. The altar inside was covered with dust, but it had not suffered from dragonfire. A lone specter flitted back and forth before the altar. Instead of moaning or screaming, it was shouting oath after oath, curse after curse.

Tarl felt his breathing speed at the sight of the ghostly visage. Its appearance reminded him of the vampire’s minions. Tarl swallowed and struggled to get his breathing under control. With considerable effort, he spoke clearly and deliberately. “Who are you, brother, and what is troubling you?” Tarl asked.

The specter continued to flit up and down and back and forth among the tables and seats in the temple, but in between oaths, it spoke in a gravelly voice. “Ferran Martinez … I am Ferran Martinez, ruling cleric of the sacred order of Tyr. I am the high cleric who remained in the temple while each of my men died, then died of starvation myself because I could not bear to go outside and face them. The bloody dragons came. They burned and killed and left our mission’s work undone.”

“What keeps you undead, Brother Martinez? What work remains undone? Can I be of help?” Ren and Shal just looked on as Tarl coaxed and soothed the agitated apparition.

The creature swung its phantom arms straight through the altar repeatedly, as if to strike it, but managed only to knock over several dust-coated candlesticks from the flurry of wind it generated. “Devils to the Abyss! Blast them in the fiery furnace! Sleep, men! Rest.” He ended in a piteous scream.

“Brother Martinez, can I help?” Tarl repeated.

“The city of Phlan is dead! Monsters! Nothing but monsters! And the temple … it was never used. We had just finished building it, but there were no worshipers, only the clerics who built it. No peace in the city! No peace! Nothing but walking dead and unending nightmares … and the Lord of the Ruins, Tyranthraxus, still lives! Cursed creature from the pit! Power-grabbing blasphemer! May his soul rot!”

“They’ve reconstructed part of the city, Brother Martinez. It’s civilized again. In fact, they call the new part Civilized Phlan.”

“ ‘Civilized Phlan’?” the specter repeated, then grew still and floated closer to Tarl.

Tarl flinched involuntarily but stood firm. “Yes, and we’re building a new temple to Tyr. That’s why I came, to aid others in the construction and startup of the new temple.”

“A new temple to Tyr? Then you can use the holy scale?” The specter whisked to the altar and pulled back a cloth. A silver balance, the balance of Tyr, God of War and Justice, stood on the table. “You will see that this gets used in the new temple?”

Tarl dropped down on one knee, both awed and humbled at the prospect of being given a second chance to deliver a holy symbol of his god to the temple in Phlan. “I will see that the scale sits proudly on the altar of the temple in Phlan.”

“Then I can at last rest,” said Ferran Martinez, “and so can our brothers.” He held the scale out to Tarl, and Tarl wrapped it carefully in the cloth that had covered it for five decades.

And the apparition of Ferran Martinez reclined at the foot of the altar, with its ethereal hands folded across its chest, and vanished in a puff of mist.

Outside the keep, the grounds stood empty. No skeletal warriors walked the courtyard. In fact, the most noticeable thing was the sunshine that filled the sky over Thorn Island. The brilliant orange of the setting sun glistened unimpeded off the walls of the temple and the tall grasses that covered the courtyard.