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.
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 smil
ed 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 Hour 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.
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