4
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.
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.
Shal attempted a mental
'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
