Pool of Radiance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anton's face paled noticeably. 'Tarl's just a pup-barely twenty, if I can count. What's the rush, Brother Sontag?'

Sontag waved a hand toward Anton to silence him. 'How many weapons have you mastered, Tarl?'