The paladin stood before the shadowed archway, breathing air sharp and acrid with the stench of magic. The stone ruins about him were dark and strangely distorted. The walls of the dank chambers seemed to be undulating wildly, the leprous colonnades lurching at queer angles, as if the place had been designed by a madman.

The paladin gripped a heavy, combat-worn battle-hammer firmly in one gauntleted hand, and in his other he held a white crestless shield. Before being granted a symbol of honor, a paladin had to prove his worth. This was his test.

He stepped through the archway.

Immediately he sensed it. Evil. It lingered on the air, coating him as he passed, leaving what felt like a thin, noxious layer of rancid oil on his skin. The paladin did his best to ignore it as he journeyed into the blackness. His shield gave off a faint azure radiance, lighting his way.

Yesss… Come to me, Hammerseeker.

The bubbling voice seemed to ooze out of the darkness from all directions, shrill and inhuman.

"Who are you?" the paladin called into the murk. The beating of his heart echoed loudly inside his steel breastplate.

Your doom!

Without warning, a pulsing crimson glow burst apart the darkness with violent light, revealing a chamber of monstrous proportions. Ponderous stone vaults, as huge and misshapen as giants, supported a ceiling lost in the crimson miasma. The walls were formed of what seemed at first to be huge oblong bricks. It was only after a moment that the paladin realized what they really were: coffins.

There were hundreds of them. No, thousands. Coffins of beaten gold and worm-eaten wood, of rune-carved stone and rotting wicker. Many were cracked and broken, their denizens hanging out of them in a thousand different states of decay, all leering at him with the ceaseless grins of death.

Come, youngling! Bow to me, before I rend your limbs apart.

Shadows swirled in the lofty nave of the huge chamber. The paladin approached almost against his will. He barely noticed the heaps of treasure scattered around him. Beaten silver urns shone like enormous hearts in the pulsing crimson light. Gold coffers lay broken open, their jeweled contents spilling out of them like guts.

Closer, youngling. Come gaze upon what you have given your brief and pitiful life to seek.

Blue radiance burst into life high in the nave. The paladin caught a glimpse of something hovering at the center of the diamond-hard brilliance, an object of wondrous power. Then the shadows swirled, cloaking the blessed light

And now, Hammerseeker, you die!

Something moved with terrible swiftness in the darkness of the nave. The paladin barely managed to lift his shield in time to meet the blow. He cried out as pain coursed like lightning up his arm. The white shield shuddered, then burst asunder in a spray of twisted shards. The denizens of the coffin-walls jeered at him in a horrid cacophony of teeth clattering and bone snapping.

The paladin fought down the panic clawing at his chest. "I will stand firm, Tyr!" he shouted to his god. He swung his battlehammer in a whistling arc toward the darkness.

But his footing was not secure.

His heel skidded on coins scattered across the stone floor. His blow went wild, the hammer spinning off into the darkness as he fell to his knees. Shrill laughter bubbled from the alcove as the coffin-walls erupted in a new chorus of gleeful rattling. The paladin hung his head in defeat. He was no hero.

No, you are not, youngling. You are a fool. And now you will die a fool's death!

Midnight-dark claws slashed out of the darkness. They punched through the paladin's steel breastplate as if it were parchment. Four streaks of searing fire streaked across his chest. His body arched backward in agony. Hot blood spattered the dark stone floor. A scream ripped from his lungs.

"No! Tyr, help me! It wasn't supposed to end like this!"

There was no answer to his cry. His god had forsaken him. The shadow-shrouded being stirred again, readying its final blow.

Weighted down by his heavy armor, Kern hurriedly descended the tower's central staircase. As a paladin-aspirant, tradition required that he don full armor before visiting the temple of Tyr. That included a heavy shirt of chain mail, a breastplate of beaten steel, and greaves to match. Over this he wore the tabard of pure, unblemished white that marked him as a supplicant to the Order of Paladins. At his side hung the worn battlehammer he used for practice.

He tried to adjust his heavy chain mail shirt, but no matter how much he jerked and twisted, the armor still seemed to pinch him under the arms. He found Tarl already waiting for him downstairs, Shal at his side. The two were in the middle of an intent conversation, which was broken off abruptly when Kern entered the room.

Before he could wonder what they had been discussing, Tarl spoke exuberantly.

"The temple's sages have been trying to solve the riddle of the hammer for twenty-two years. Are you as curious as I am, Son, to learn if they have discovered an answer at last?"

Kern nodded. "I'm ready, Father."

"And so am I," a sparkling voice said behind Kern.

He whirled just in time to see Listle step blithely through a wall of solid stone, the ruby pendant she always wore winking brightly.

"Must you do that?" the young warrior asked with a frown.

"Must I do what, Kern?" the elf replied innocently.

Kern gritted his teeth, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a reply. Listle had the disconcerting habit of stepping through walls and other seemingly solid objects when one least expected it. Shal considered the elf's ability to pass through solid matter a magical curiosity. Kern just considered it a nuisance. He stepped forward, opening the tower's door.

"Be careful," Shal admonished them, her eyes grim. "Remember, Phlan isn't the safe haven it used to be."

The three promised to be cautious and stepped outside.

Denlor's Tower stood on the north edge of Phlan, but the temple of Tyr was located in the central city, so they had a fair distance to walk. It was a chill, gray day. Autumn had arrived early, and winter also promised to be premature. Lately, when Kern looked out of his chamber's window in the morning, he could see a thin white line of ice where the steely waters of the Moonsea met the beach.

Kern firmly gripped Tarl's elbow, guiding his blind father, while Listle bounded ahead with her typical ebullience. They turned onto a narrow street, and the comforting sight of Denlor's Tower was lost from view. Shal had been right to caution them to take care, Kern thought to himself. Over the last several years, Phlan had undergone a steady decline. Everyone knew the mysterious malaise was due to the growing crisis of the lost relic. As surely as the clerics of Tyr were dying, so was Phlan, street by street and person by person.

In Kern's childhood memories, Phlan had been a city of broad, tree-lined avenues, neatly kept stone cottages, and broad cobbled squares centered around clear-water fountains. The Phlan of today was starkly different. Dark, sour-smelling water ran down the center of most streets, their cobblestones cracked and covered with refuse and slime. In places the cobbles were gone altogether, leaving gaping holes filled with foul-smelling muck churned up by the hooves of horses. The trees that arched over the avenues were dead, their brittle branches sagging down like skeletal fingers. Brick smokestacks belched forth black, sulfurous clouds that stained the sky above, turning its once bright azure to an angry iron gray. Now when it rained in Phlan, the rain was gritty and dark, the color of ashes.

As they walked, Kern noted that the houses slumping to either side of the avenue were squalid and filthy. Hard-faced women dumped their dirty dishwater out of second-story windows, heedless of who might be walking below. Shifty-eyed men clad in mud-stained tunics congregated in the doorways of abandoned buildings, watching travelers pass, now and then baring yellowed teeth in smiles that were anything but neighborly. Kern did his best to steer clear.

"Tell me truthfully, Kern," Tarl said as the three of them walked. "How does the city look?"

On his honor, Kern could not lie, though his heart was heavy. He knew how much the city meant to his father. "Worse," the young warrior said sadly. "With all the soot and shadows, it looks more like twilight than midday." He gave wide berth to a tattered pile of refuse lying in the gutter only to realize that it was a corpse, half-eaten by rats, with a rusted knife sticking out of its back. He muttered a quick prayer to Tyr as he hastened past, glad Tarl could not see the foul sight.

A scream echoed in the distance, a man's wordless cry of agony. Abruptly, it was cut short. Wicked laughter drifted down from open windows above, followed by the sound of men fighting. Coarse voices shouted curses so vile they made Kern's ears turn red. None of this, however, seemed to bother Listle, who scampered cheerfully along.

Tarl shook his head ruefully. "This is a dark time, Kern. I'm sorry you've had to grow to manhood during these last years. And I'm sorry that you have come to stay with us at such a black time in Phlan's history, Listle Onopordum. Without the hammer, the temple of Tyr is losing its power. And without the temple, the city will lose its way."

A group of beggars shuffled by, swathed in rancid-smelling rags. Quickly Kern reached for the leather purse at his belt. He distributed what money he had, but there were more hands than coins. The beggars trudged on without a word of gratitude, their listless expressions unchanged. A putrid odor lingered in their wake, the scent of rot and death.

"Why don't the people of Phlan fight to win their city back?" Listle asked. The elf stepped nimbly over an oozing pile of garbage, shaking her head in disgust. "I thought the citizens of Phlan were supposed to be some of the greatest fighters in Faerun. They've been attacked by armies of evil countless times over the centuries-from goblins and orcs to trolls and giants-and never once has the city been defeated. Now it looks as if the Death Gates are going to collapse simply out of neglect. The next army of ogres won't even have to bother breaking them down."

Kern shuddered at the thought.

"We can't blame the people of Phlan for being led astray, Listle," Tarl said reprovingly. "It isn't their fault. The influence of dark magic is everywhere now. I can feel it in my heart like a great black weight. Without the hammer, the clerics of Tyr no longer have the power to protect the people from evil or to banish the darkness from the city. But we should not despair. There are still a few folk in the city who seek the light and ask for the blessing of Tyr. Let us just hope that Patriarch Anton and the others have not solved Bane's riddle too late. If the Hammer of Tyr can be found, the city might yet be saved."

Looking at the grim scene around him, Kern was not so sure. He kept his free hand on the frayed leather grip of his battlehammer as they pressed on.

"By the way, Kern," Tarl continued, "don't let me forget to tell Patriarch Anton about this trait of yours, this unmagic as your mother calls it. I confess, I often wondered why I was never able to catch the slightest glimpse of you, even after placing that enchantment on your armor. Now it appears I have an explanation."

Despite his blindness, Tarl had the peculiar ability to "see" magic. It was a talent that had developed gradually over the last several years. At first, Tarl had only been able to detect a faint glow each time Shal cast a spell near him. Eventually, he began to see magical auras as glowing clouds of light. Now his talent had grown to the point where he could not only detect all sorts of magical energies, he could discern their true natures as well.

So, Kern realized with a start, because of his magical resistance he would always remain invisible to his father. That saddened the young paladin. He gripped Tarl's arm more tightly.

A sly look touched the cleric's face then. "Listle, of course, glows with such a brilliant silver color that I can hardly bear to look at her sometimes. Though the hue is exceedingly lovely, of course."

"Why thank you, Tarl," Listle replied, positively beaming. "That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

The trio passed an unsavory-looking tavern, a place by the cheery name of The Bloated Corpse, if Kern read the peeling, weatherworn sign correctly. Raucous laughter drifted through the portal, along with the stench of cheap ale and blood.

"Next time, dog, if you can't pay with gold, you can pay with your ears instead!" a coarse voice bellowed from inside the place.

Abruptly a small, scroungy man came flying out of the doorway, landing in a heap right at Kern's feet. The young warrior nearly fell backward in an effort not to collide with him. Kern recovered his balance, then reached down to help the man, a mangy, cross-eyed fellow with a face like a rat's, to his feet. He gazed at Kern with an expression of abject terror.

"Are you all right?" Kern asked him.

"By all the bloody gods of darkness, leave me be!" the scrawny man squealed. He squirmed from Kern's grip and dashed away, disappearing down a side alley.

Kern stared in shock. He had never before heard the gods of evil invoked in Phlan.

"Pleasant fellow," Listle noted dryly.

Kern shook his head. "I was only trying to help."

"You can't help him," spoke a husky voice. Kern spun in surprise to see a barmaid leaning against the tavern's doorway. "He sold himself to the gods of evil a long time ago," the woman went on with a hoarse, throaty laugh. "Now he has nothing left to sell to pay off his gambling debts." The barmaid might have been pretty once, but her weary face was smeared with dirt, and the grimy bodice of the ragged gray dress she wore had slipped disconcertingly low.

"I'm sorry," was all Kern could think to say.

The woman eyed him calculatingly. "Well, if you're so interested in helping someone," she crooned, advancing on him, "perhaps you could help me, my handsome warrior."

Listle glared at her. "Come on, Kern, let's get out of here." The elf jerked his arm viciously. Kern and Tarl were practically dragged down the street by the sorceress's apprentice. "I don't think you'd want to give her the kind of 'help' she's looking for."

Kern heard the barmaid cackle behind him, but there was no mirth in the sound.

"Listen to your little friend, warrior!" the woman called after him. "You'd better hurry on to your precious temple. This part of town is no place for the pure of heart. Then again, no part of this town is anymore!"

The three hurried on. Tarl had fallen silent, a pained expression on his face. The city's degeneration wounded the cleric of Tyr deeply.

Finally the thick stone walls of the temple of Tyr hove into view. The massive temple was a welcome sight. It had been built several decades ago, the first step in an attempt to reclaim and civilize the monster-infested ruins that in those days was Phlan. As such, it was as much a citadel as temple. The high stone walls were dotted with arrow slits and topped by machicolations, openings located beneath the wall's crenelations through which hot pitch or other unpleasant substances could be rained down onto attackers. Behind the walls rose the bulk of the temple, a square, utilitarian building of dark stone topped by a single gleaming dome of bronze. Kern allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief as he led the way toward the temple's gates.

Suddenly, four raggedly clad men stumbled out from a side alley. They were laughing coarsely, as if they had just shared a particularly bawdy joke. The men lurched directly in Kern's path. Their laughter vanished in a heartbeat, along with their drunken manner. All four were sober and quite well armed.

A big shaggy man with one eye leveled a rusted broadsword at Kern. "Give us all your gold, boy, and maybe you and your mates here will keep your heads."

Kern moved swiftly in front of Listle to protect her, hefting his battlehammer.

"Kern," the elf hissed in annoyance, "it's nice that you're such a gentleman, but I can't cast a spell if you're blocking my view."

"Looky here," sneered another of the robbers with a leer. "The puppy in the armor has a hammer. Maybe he wants us to use it to pound in some coffin nails."

Kern raised his weapon, inwardly calling upon Tyr for strength. Four to one were bad odds, but he had to do his best to protect Listle and Tarl.

Before Kern could act, Tarl stepped past him.

"Why don't you try me first, ruffian?" Tarl taunted in his booming voice. "Being blind, I can't imagine I'd be much of a challenge for you." Kern stared at his father in horror.

The leader of the cutthroats laughed. "Suit yourself, old man." The robber raised his rusty sword.

With astonishing swiftness, Tarl reached out and grabbed the robber's hand. Deftly, the blind cleric twisted the man's arm behind him. The sword clattered to the cobblestones. Tarl gave a quick jerk and was rewarded with a sharp snap. The robber screamed in agony and slumped to the street, cradling his broken arm. A fierce grin broke across Tarl's face.

"Next?" the white-haired cleric of Tyr inquired.

Apparently there was some confusion as to whose turn it was, for the remaining robbers collided with each other as they swiftly turned tail in order to flee.

"Hey, wait for me!" their leader cried out with anguish, scrambling to his feet to hurry after his confederates.

" 'Old man' indeed!" Tarl snorted, flexing his powerful shoulders. "I don't need eyes to deal with curs like that. My nose works well enough. I don't think that fellow has ever heard of the adage 'cleanliness is next to holiness.' "

Kern gazed at his father with pride. Sighted or not, Tarl was not a man to be trifled with.

They reached the temple's gates without further incident. Two fully armored clerics standing guard allowed them to pass, and they crossed a vast courtyard to the temple proper.

A dozen marble columns supported a facade which was carved with friezes depicting a stern-faced Tyr. The god, who was missing his right hand, was dispensing justice to figures that knelt before him. The pleas of some were answered with riches, those of others with jagged lightning bolts.

"Tyr's a rather gloomy-looking fellow, isn't he?" Listle noted apprehensively as they ascended the temple's steps.

"He's the God of Justice, Listle," Kern replied in annoyance. "Somehow I don't think it would have the same impact on the unjust if he were a kindly old man with a sweet smile and pockets full of candy."

"Maybe not," Listle agreed. "But then, I'm all in favor of candy."

The three passed through a columned portico and found themselves beneath the temple's bronze-gilded dome in a great circular hall of gray stone. The floor was decorated with an intricate mosaic depicting Tyr's symbol: scales resting on a warhammer, with which Tyr weighed the arguments for and against those seeking redemption.

"Tarl!" a deep voice boomed, resounding off the soaring andesite vaults. A burly cleric, with a grizzled, iron-colored beard and wearing a traditional white robe, came striding across the room. "I'm glad you could be here on this auspicious day, Brother." Patriarch Anton, oldest and foremost of the temple's clerics, gripped Tarl's forearms warmly. "You also, Kern. I'm sure you will want to-"

"Ahem. Aren't you forgetting someone, Patriarch Anton?" Listle piped up.

Anton glowered darkly at being interrupted, but after Listle shot a winning smile at the old patriarch, he let out a rumbling laugh despite himself. It was the elf's dimples, of course. It was impossible to be angry at someone with dimples, and Listle's were superior examples. They allowed her to get away with all sorts of impertinences.

"Yes, Listle Onopordum, you are welcome as well," Anton rumbled amiably. "Though I wonder if I would be able to keep you away even if you were not."

Listle thought about that for a moment. "Probably not," she decided.

The patriarch led the three to a group of white-robed clerics clustered about a long mahogany table. It looked as if all the temple's clerics were there, about thirty altogether. Five years ago there would have been three score clerics and a half-dozen young men and women besides Kern wearing the white tabard of the paladin-aspirant. Few new disciples had taken the places of the clerics of Tyr who had been struck down, one by one, over these last years.

"This way, Brother Tarl." Anton led the blind cleric to the table. "Come, hear what we've learned."

In the center of the table, a huge book rested on a cushion of black velvet. Kern had seen it on several prior occasions: a tome five handspans across, bound in the dusky, scaly leather of some unnameable beast. Within its crackling pages of ancient, yellowed parchment were thirteen terrible prophecies written by the dark god Bane himself over a thousand years ago. Its pages foretold in horrible detail some of the suffering and misery that Bane would bring to Faerun. Kern had heard the story of the book, called The Oracle of Strife, and how it came to the temple, many times.

Legend held that long, long ago, the god Bane wished to know how much of the world would one day fall under his evil dominion. He went to his wicked sister, the goddess Shar, mistress of the dark. Shar concocted a potion from the fabric of midnight, the very moment of time between one day and the next, when magic is at its most powerful and the future most easily deciphered. Bane drank the potion, but such was its power that the god was plunged into a delirium. It was in this fevered state that Bane penned the thirteen prophecies included in The Oracle of Strife.

For long centuries, the book was lost to the world. Then, some three hundred years ago, an itinerant cleric of Tyr happened upon the tome in the ruins of a temple of Bane deep in the primeval forests west of the Moonsea. Eventually the book was delivered to the custodianship of the temple of Tyr in Phlan. It was a relic of fearsome evil, and the clerics locked it away under powerful wards to keep it out of the hands of those with sinister intentions.

During the last century, the book had been all but forgotten. But after Bane had heinously usurped the Hammer of Tyr, one of the temple's sages remembered the tome. The book was brought out for study. It was then that the temple's sages discovered that one of the thirteen prophecies concerned the theft of the hammer as well as its subsequent hiding place. After that, long, frustrating years of studying the prophecy ensued. Years that- apparently-had now finally come to an end.

"It was only recently we realized that not all of the prophecies in the tome pleased Bane," Patriarch Anton explained. His gaze moved to a wizened woman with eyes as dark and shining as obsidian. "Why don't you tell them what you have learned, Sister Sendara?" Sendara was the temple's auguress, and an expert on the matter of prophecy.

The ancient cleric nodded. "The key lies in the Time of Troubles," Sendara began. "It has been thirteen years now since that great conflagration shook Faerun, when Bane was destroyed, along with his brethren, the dark gods Myrkul and Bhaal. I now have reason to believe that Bane predicted his own demise in The Oracle of Strife."

A murmur of surprise rippled about the table.

Sendara continued in her rich, strong voice. "As we know, Bane was in a deep trance when he penned the prophecies. I think it is conceivable that he had no control over what emerged. Thus it was that he could not help but foresee his failures as well as his victories. Everyone who has studied the tome knows that the last prophecy is almost illegible. It looks as if Bane crossed it out in anger after he recovered from his delirium. I had always assumed that it was simply because he wasn't pleased with his poetic achievement on that one." Sendara gave a sharp-edged smile. "Bane was quite puffed-up about his poetry, despite the fact that it's dreadful stuff. But from the few words I am able to decipher, I feel certain that this prophecy concerns Bane's downfall. Apparently that is why he tried to deface it. Bane thought if he obscured the prophecy, such a fated thing wouldn't come to pass."

"He was very wrong about that!" Listle whispered to Kern with a snort.

"Hush!" he hissed back, elbowing her for emphasis.

Brother Dameron, a young, round-faced cleric with a rather expansive paunch, joined in the explanation. "Sister Sendara's insights gave me an idea," he told the others. "If Bane had attempted to deface one prophecy that displeased him, wouldn't he have tried the same with others? Perhaps he might even have changed small details that annoyed him. To answer that query, I performed a modest experiment on the prophecy concerning the hammer."

Here Brother Dameron reached out and opened the book on the table to a place marked by a black silk ribbon. Kern noticed that silver holy symbols stood at each corner of the table-wards to keep the evil of the book from tainting those who studied it. Dameron turned to the last page of the prophecy of the hammer.

"If you look very closely, you can just make out a series of fine scratch marks in the parchment, along with a few tiny flecks of ink. They're so faint we did not notice them earlier. Now that I've studied it, there's no mistaking the conclusion." The sage paused dramatically. "Several lines have been scoured from the parchment with erasing sand. There's no reason to believe that it was anyone but Bane himself who did this. And that means the missing lines must say something Bane did not want revealed."

"The hiding place of the Hammer of Tyr?" Tarl asked intently.

"Exactly."

Caught up in the excitement, Kern blurted out without thinking, "But if Bane scrubbed out the lines a thousand years ago, how can we use them to learn where he hid the hammer?"

Immediately Kern realized that he, a mere paladin-aspirant, had interrupted one of the temple's most august clerics. His cheeks flushed crimson.

"I think Brother Dameron has found a solution to that dilemma, my impatient young paladin." There was a note of kindly humor in Anton's voice. "If, of course, you would be so good as to permit him the opportunity to indulge us with the news."

"Of course," Kern managed to sputter despite his mortification. Listle glanced at him smugly.

"Thank you," Dameron said, winking at Kern. He drew a small jar from his pocket. Unstoppering it, he took out a pinch of colorless powder and sprinkled it carefully over the page. Gradually, a faint shine began to creep across the cracked and yellowed parchment. The shimmering grew brighter, forming spidery lines and swirling whorls. Kern gasped. The magical glow had outlined a dozen lines of cryptic-looking runes.

"Bane erased the true ending of the prophecy," Dameron explained. "But as any apprentice scribe copying tomes for his or her master knows, no matter how hard one scours, traces of ink always remain on the paper."

Listle grimaced, nodding. Shal was always giving her stacks of magical books to copy, and the elf's mistress was nothing less than a perfectionist. A stray drop of ink usually meant she had to recopy the entire page.

"The powder I sprinkled on the parchment causes those remaining, almost invisible, flecks of ink to glimmer," Dameron concluded. "And thus we are able to read a part of the prophecy we never knew existed."

"I, too, can read it!" Tarl said in wonderment. Kern looked at his father in surprise. Then he understood. The runes on the page were glowing with magical light. They would be vivid to his father.

"The language is archaic." Tarl's pale eyebrows knitted together as he studied the tome intently. "And you're right, Sendara, the verse is atrocious. But I think I can translate it:

The huge assassin called Slayer strode into the smoky subterranean hall and surveyed the gathered throng with cruel eyes, his lips curling back from his strong white teeth in a feral grin. It looked as if every last member of Phlan's guild of thieves had answered the call, from the scroungiest cutpurse to the deadliest killer. Over three hundred men and women stood before Slayer, and all of them were his to command. The old fools of the temple of Tyr had seen their last sunrise.

"I have a gift for you, thieves of Phlan!" Slayer proclaimed in his booming voice. "From Guildmaster Sirana herself. You would do well not to refuse it."

He gestured to a huge, misshapen heap before him, covered with a rough cloth the color of old blood. At his signal, a trio of thieves leaped forward to pull back the cloth, revealing a pile of ebony armor. Next to it was a stack of long swords as dark and polished as onyx.

"With these weapons, we will crush the wretched clerics and seize the tome that points the way to the Hammer of Tyr-and the riches Bane is said to have buried with that relic. Clad yourselves in this armor and take up these swords, thieves of Phlan, and I promise you, you will fight as you never have before!"

The thieves eyed Slayer hesitantly. He had been second-in-command of the thieves' guild for no more than three moons, and many were still wary of him.

Slayer watched them scornfully. "Now!" he thundered, drawing himself up to his full seven feet. The soot-covered rafters shook with the force of his voice, and his dark eyes blazed with menace. Clad all in black leather, he was a commanding figure.

The resistance of the thieves broke. Swiftly they pressed forward, grabbing breastplates as smooth as beetle carapaces and swords as sleek as adders. Most of them were at a loss as to how to don the armor, and they stared at the weapons in confusion. Thieves were usually creatures of stealth and trickery, not warriors.

"We're cutthroats, Slayer, not bone-brained fighters!" a voice sneered over the din. "Or did you forget that, just as you and your foul mistress have forgotten so many of our other traditions?"

Slayer turned his dark gaze toward a wiry man with a shaved head and an eye lost in a mass of scar tissue. Kankorlin. He had been loyal to Bercan, the guildmaster Sirana had murdered three months before. Kankorlin had been whispering against Sirana ever since she seized command of the guild. Now he had finally summoned the courage to speak out.

"I for one won't wear this junk!" Kankorlin tossed down a breastplate in disgust and turned to the assembled thieves. "We can't lumber up to the temple in these. Fine targets we'll make for the spells of those idiot clerics."

Murmurs of agreement drifted through the hall.

"Is that so, Kankorlin?" Slayer replied, his voice as smooth as oil. "Well, if you don't care to wear the armor, you certainly don't have to."

Kankorlin smiled at his easy victory. However, his pleasure was short-lived.

With an idle flick of his black-gloved hand, Slayer sent an inky sphere of magic hurtling toward Kankorlin. It struck the wiry thief directly in the chest. There was a sizzling sound and a smell of burning flesh as the thief was propelled backward and crushed against a granite wall. The other thieves stared in shock as the remnants of Kankorlin's body slid to the floor, still smoking.

"Who else prefers not to don the armor?" Slayer inquired.

Three hundred thieves less one scrambled to strap on the onyx breastplates.

With a flourish, Slayer raised his own suit of black armor in one hand. Fiery sparks sped from his fingertips to engulf the ebony armor. In the blink of an eye the suit magically melded to his body. The metal conformed tightly to his muscles, fitting him like a second skin.

As the thieves strapped on the black armor, they noted the slippery, greasy quality of the metal. As the form-fitting metal covered each wearer from neck to ankle, a subtle transformation took place. Each thief suddenly became a little bulkier, more muscular. Faces grew harder and coarser; brutish gleams ignited in every pair of eyes. Slayer stroked his well-oiled beard, most pleased. Sirana's enchanted armor seemed to be everything she had promised it would be.

Suddenly the torches dimmed as a chill gust of wind coursed through the hall. Slayer sensed Sirana's shadow minions approaching. His mistress must have finished her incantations in her nearby spellcasting chamber.

The torches guttered and died, plunging the hall into darkness. The sound of wings echoed like heartbeats. Suddenly nine pairs of feral red eyes appeared in the dim surface of the west wall. The burning eyes drifted toward the armored thieves.

Several of the thieves produced flares, and the resulting green glow revealed fiends such as the onlookers had never imagined existed. Spinagons on clawed feet strode boldly into the hall, moving with a queer reptilian grace, their leathery wings flapping lazily behind them. There were nine of the fell beasts, each bearing a long, wickedly barbed spear. The weapons sizzled with flame, sparks flying from their steel tips, scorching the air with the reek of burned hair. Had the beasts appeared ten minutes before, the thieves would have fled in terror. But the magical armor had hardened their hearts as well as their bodies. The thieves showed no fear of Sirana's otherworldly minions. The fiends snarled at the green flares, thick drool oozing from serrated fangs.

"We have been summoned from our plane of existence," the fiends hissed in unison. "Who are we to kill?"

"Whom I tell you to kill," Slayer spat.

Their eyes flared with hatred, but the spinagons bowed their heads in submission. They had no choice; Sirana controlled them with her powerful magic.

"All of Tyr's clerics must die!" Slayer bellowed to the crowd. "And we must capture the book that reveals the way to Tyr's hammer. Our reward will be untold riches." The huge man raised a fist on high. "Are you with me, thieves of Phlan?"

As one, the magically armored thieves raised their dark swords, eyes gleaming with curiously blank ferocity as they shouted their battle cries.

"Why, by all the bloodiest gods, must I always endure such fools around me?"

A bolt of magic streaked from Sirana's fingertips. It ricocheted wildly around her circular spellcasting chamber, deep in the subterranean warrens of the thieves' guild, pulverizing priceless sculptures and blasting antique furniture to ashes before finally dissipating against the porphyry walls.

"How could they lose?" Sirana shrieked, her hands clenched into fists. But no human being could answer her. The last three thieves who had entered her chamber were now scuttling around the floor in the form of cockroaches, doing their best to avoid being crushed by her boot heels. "How could they have lost to a band of doddering holy men? All that blasted abishai had to do was bring back an old book and a foolish boy!"

Sirana caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mirror of polished bronze. She liked what she saw-a tall, shapely woman with dark hair and smoldering eyes, clad in a thin white shift belted by a heavy braid of gold. Yes, she thought, even in her rage she looked supremely beautiful. She enjoyed this human form she had taken. Not a hint of her fiendish heritage showed beneath the sultry, feminine exterior.

She sank into an ornately carved chair-one of the few items in the room that had escaped her magical wrath- and bit delicately on a knuckle. It was time to put rage aside and calculate a new course of action. Revenge was best planned with a cool head. Sirana knew that well. After all, she had made revenge her specialty.

It was obvious that a direct attack on the clerics of Tyr would not avail her. She had spent months taking over Phlan's thieves' guild, perverting it to suit her purposes. Then she had summoned Slayer to be her servant. Slayer was a baatezu abishai, a magical creature of fearsome power, but he had failed miserably. No matter the armored horde of thieves and the pack of feral spinagons she had sent to help him.

She picked up a small black-lacquered box from a table beside the chair. It was her most precious possession, a gift from her beloved mother on the day Sirana had murdered the old crone. It was a box full of magical memories. Carefully, Sirana opened the lid. Gradually an image began to form in the darkness within.

An image of a lofty tower, hewn of crimson stone.

Though Sirana had never gazed upon the tower with her own eyes, it was nonetheless a familiar sight to her. The tower had belonged to her father, Lord Marcus, a powerful Red Wizard from the eastern land of Thay. Once it had been a citadel of awesome power built above a legendary pool of darkness. Marcus had managed to imprison the entire city of Phlan in a cavern underneath the tower, intending to drain the life-forces of the citizens in order to transform himself into a demigod.

"But it was all for nothing," Sirana whispered mournfully. "If only I could have been there to help."

She watched as history replayed in the images of the black box. She saw the defilers come to the tower: a ranger, a sorceress, a barbarian who could assume the form of a great cat, and finally the one who always sent a shiver of fear through her-a skeletal paladin, his empty eye sockets glowing with horrible, holy blue light. The undead paladin had been the cause of her father's demise, and for that she despised him most of all. The paladin had turned to dust at the end of the battle, so he was beyond the reach of revenge. But the others were not.

She watched as the tiny tower inside the black box began to topple and fall. She watched as the invaders fled the scene of destruction. For long moments, the images were still. Nothing moved. Then Sirana could glimpse her mother, the beautiful, fiendish erinyes who had served the human, Lord Marcus, crawl from the ruins, bleeding, wings twisted and broken, yet alive.

The erinyes had given birth to Sirana not long after the defeat at the red tower. Because of her half-fiendish blood, Sirana had grown quickly. Early on, her mother had sown the seeds of enmity in Sirana's heart, teaching her everything about the powers of darkness that might be useful one day to hunt those who had killed Marcus and injured the erinyes. When Sirana was nine, she had tested her daughter's progress in a magical duel. In the course of the battle, Sirana had slain her mother, gaining the erinyes's power for her own. Neither regretted the outcome of the duel. Even as she lay dying, the erinyes had presented the memory box to Sirana and made her take a vow of vengeance.

For years, Sirana had bided her time, waiting for the perfect moment to enact her revenge. And then a wondrous opportunity had presented itself. She discovered a fantastic new source of power that made her stronger than she had ever dared to hope. A plan unfurled in her mind. Not only would she kill those who had slain her father, she would also regain the precious Hammer of Tyr the city held so dear. Without the hammer, Phlan would never be healed of the vice and corruption that had come to plague it since the hammer was lost. Then she would ransom the hammer to one of the many dark gods who despised Tyr. In exchange for the relic, she would demand to become a demigod, just as Marcus himself, her father, had once dreamed. Her vengeance, and her destiny, would be complete.

The iron door of her spellcasting chamber flew open with a boom, shattering her pleasant reverie. She scowled, snapping shut the memory box. A cruel light shone in her dark eyes. Yes, she would have her revenge, and she would become a deity. This minor setback at the temple meant nothing at all. But first she had some tedious business to take care of.

"We have dealt the imbecile clerics of Tyr a blow they will not soon forget, Sirana!" a voice thundered.

Slayer. The abishai strutted into her chamber, displaying dagger-sharp fangs. Several roaches scuttled about in terror. Unlike Slayer, they possessed an inkling of what was going to happen.

The massive fiend stood before Sirana's chair, breath reeking, the veins in its membranous wings pulsing with black blood.

"It was a glorious battle," Slayer snarled arrogantly. "The morons of Tyr will never stand another assault."

"Is that so?" Sirana crooned. "And what do we have left to assault them with, Slayer? An army of cockroaches?" She flung a small crimson ball of energy at one of the insects crawling by. When the smoke cleared, all that remained was a scorched spot on the stone floor.

Slayer shrugged massive shoulders. "They couldn't prove any worse in battle than your spinagons, mistress. Not that your army of thieves was much better. Despite their ineptitude, I almost got my hands on The Oracle of Strife. Then a blasted paladin I had set ablaze had the gall to collapse on the book. It was ashes before I could blink. Your idiot spinagons should have stopped him, but they had all perished at the hands of an elven illusionist." The fiend's scarlet eyes glowed hotly. "You didn't tell me there would be a mage in the temple, mistress. Tch, tch! You should be grateful I am still alive to serve you."

A smile coiled itself about Sirana's lips like a small ruby serpent. "Indeed, abishai, I am exceedingly grateful. And I feel I should grant you a reward for your accomplishments."

She lifted a hand. Slayer's eyes flared suspiciously. Black flames encircled the fiend's body. Layer after layer of magical protections wove themselves about the abishai. The fiend glared at its mistress smugly. It had nothing to fear from the half-breed daughter of a lowly erinyes.

"You dare to raise a hand against me?" Slayer snarled. Drool flew from the abishai's maw, pitting the stone floor where it splattered. "I am a prince among fiends. Your mother's kind are insects to me, and your father's most powerful spells could not so much have scratched my defenses. You summoned me into this world, Sirana, but do not for a moment believe that you will be able to hurt me."

Sirana feigned an impressed look. "I have misjudged you, great abishai," she simpered. She fell to her knees before the fiend's clawed feet, bowing her head submissively. "Truly I am not worthy of being called mistress by one so mighty as yourself."

Slayer let out a deep, rumbling laugh. "Well, this is more appropriate, erinyes-spawn."

Abruptly Sirana stood up, a vicious smile on her beautiful face. Slayer stared at her, too late noticing the rune she had drawn upon the floor while she knelt.

The rune spewed forth a white-hot funnel of sparks.

"What is this?" the abishai hissed as the sparks covered its body. The fiend tried to bat them away, but the sparks seared its scaly flesh with pain wherever they touched. Black flames flared to protect Slayer, but the sparks sent by Sirana spun faster and faster. The abishai's aura of protection shattered.

"No!" Slayer screamed. "This cannot be!"

Sirana watched as the sparks adhered to Slayer's skin. They covered the fiend, consumed it.

"But I am a prince of fiends!"

The abishai writhed like a skewered lizard, its entire form burning with magic, its body lost in the maelstrom of sparks. The tornadolike magic whirled faster and faster. Then Slayer began to shrink, melting into the rune on the floor. One last wail of fury echoed around the chamber, then the tornado was sucked down into the rune that had spawned it.

The magical symbol shimmered with power. Sirana did not hesitate. She knelt down, pressing her forehead against the rune.

Searing heat shot through her skull, but before she could scream it faded to a dull, almost pleasant tingling. Sirana stood, new power surging through her veins. The rune on the floor had vanished, but a mirror image of the symbol glowed momentarily on her pale forehead. Then it, too, faded. All the power that had been Slayer's was now hers to command.

She stretched luxuriously, then sank onto a velvet covered chaise, reveling in her victory over the abishai. A month ago such a conquest would have been beyond her abilities. But not now. Every day she grew stronger. Her destiny beckoned.

True, The Oracle of Strife had been destroyed, but the riddle of the hammer's hiding place had apparently been solved, or the clerics of Tyr would never have allowed the book to go up in flames. Sirana would find other ways of obtaining her prize. It would be simple enough to find the hammer by following those sent to fetch it, and Sirana's otherworldly spies had already informed her that the son of two of her father's killers would be among them.

She tossed her head back and laughed, a high, trilling sound that echoed off the cold stone walls. She was a highly creative fiend, after all. She was certain she would think of something.

Raising her hand, she gently stroked a braided ring fashioned from the coarse hair of some monster. "Hoag, I summon you. Come to me."

Instantly, a creature materialized high above her. The hamatula, a baatezu of the Nine Hells, was a tall, long-limbed fiend covered from head to claw with cruelly barbed spikes. The hamatula were cousins of the abishai and erinyes, but after her experience with Slayer, Sirana found that she preferred the cruel and crafty hamatula to the brutish and arrogant abishai. Hoag had served her well in the past. She should have thought to summon this particular fiend earlier.

"Sirana," the fiend growled with pleasure. "How wonderful it is to be summoned by a wizard of your eminence once again."

It bowed low, its long, spindly limbs strangely graceful. Its exquisitely sharp talons brushed the stone floor, tracing fine lines in the hard stone. "What task may I perform for you, mistress?"

"I need you to help me with a little plot I've concocted, Hoag," Sirana said liltingly. She ran a finger lightly along one of the hamatula's razor-edged barbs. "Of course, I can't have you walking around the city of Phlan looking like this."

The sorceress waved her hand. Shadows drifted down to swirl about the hamatula. When the shadows dispersed, the spider-limbed fiend was gone, and in its place stood a tall knight of noble bearing clad in ornate armor of midnight black. He bore a sable shield without device or crest. His face was concealed behind the visor of his helm.

"That's better." Sirana, deep in thought, chewed her lower lip delicately. "Of course, a good knight needs a proper steed." She waved her hand again. This time the shadows coalesced to form a glossy, jet-black charger. Its scarlet nostrils flared as it snorted, tossing its shadowy mane.

"Now, listen carefully at what you are to do, Hoag."

The tall knight nodded his head. "It is with the greatest pleasure that I serve, my dark lady."

"Thieves?" Tarl asked in shock. "But how can you be sure?"

"It was the way they handled themselves in battle that gave me the first clue," Anton replied. The big, shaggy cleric of Tyr sat in a heavy oak chair in the main chamber of Denlor's Tower. Shal was bandaging a ragged gash on Anton's shoulder in her typically efficient manner. Kern and Listle sat at a nearby table, picking at some food Shal had set out for them. Neither was particularly hungry. Once the excitement of the battle had faded, Kern found the feeling replaced by exhaustion and not just a little trepidation, for the fiends had made it clear they were after him.

"Those warriors were used to moving about unencumbered," Anton went on. "And they were obviously accustomed to using smaller and shorter weapons. They kept trying to attack at close quarters even though they didn't have adequate room to swing a long sword. All that points to their being members of the thieves' guild. But what clinched it were the notched ears."

"Notched ears?" Tarl asked with a frown.

"That's right. The last guildmaster, Bercan, lost his left ear in a duel some years ago. Ever since, the thieves of Phlan have notched their left ears as a sign of loyalty." Anton grimaced in pain as Shal deftly but firmly tightened the bandage around his shoulder. "By all the gods of light, woman, can't you be a little gentler? I'm hurt enough as it is."

"Something tells me you'll live, Anton," Shal said dryly. He gave her a glowering look, which she returned with a laugh. She gathered her salves and bandages, and turned her attention to Kern. Fortunately, none of his wounds were as deep as the gouge in Anton's shoulder.

Listle spoke up. It was virtually impossible to keep the elf out of a conversation for very long anyway. "What would the thieves of Phlan want with the Hammer of Tyr, Patriarch Anton? Could they have ransomed it back to the temple for gold?"

"Perhaps," Anton replied with a shrug. "Or more likely they were interested in the riches that are said to be hidden with the hammer."

Tarl struck fist against palm. The blind cleric paced before the hearth in agitation. "There's still something about this that bothers me. The thieves' guild has never attacked the temple before, let alone in broad daylight. And posing as warriors is very unusual. What could have made them do it? There's something else to this mystery."

"Fiends." Shal looked up from her work, a grim light in her emerald eyes. "Since when have thieves been able to summon fiends from the Nine Hells?"

Anton stood. "Since never," he growled.

"Then it might be interesting to know who summoned them," Shal mused. "If we answer that question, I think we'll find out who it is that so desperately wants the hammer. And the Hammerseeker." She frowned disapprovingly at her son as the salve she had smeared across one of his cuts turned into a puff of sticky blue cobwebs. "I told you to concentrate on keeping your wall of resistance down, Kern," she said sternly. "The salves won't work if you can't control your unmagic for at least a few seconds."

"Sorry." Kern's expression was sheepish. "I don't know why, but it keeps getting harder."

Shal studied him for a long moment. "It's most likely the aftereffect of the battle," she decided. "The more danger you're in, the stronger your unmagic is likely to get." She set down the jar of magical salve, reaching for a cloth soaked in warm water laced with willow bark. "I'm afraid you're going to have to heal naturally this time."

"You'd better get used to battle, Kern," Anton warned the young man gravely. "I have little doubt that this was only the first in a wave of attacks. Someone wants the Hammer of Tyr very badly, and they're going to do whatever it takes to get it. I imagine that even now our mysterious foe is enslaving more fiends from the nether worlds."

Listle sighed deeply. "The poor fiends."

Kern gaped at her. "'The poor fiends?' " he practically choked. "What on Toril are you talking about, Listle?"

"They didn't ask to be summoned and enslaved," the elven illusionist said indignantly.

"Listle, they're fiends," Kern retorted in disbelief. "They're evil."

"How do you know all of them are really evil?" Listle demanded, hands on her hips. "Maybe some of them have been ordered to attack us against their will." She fidgeted with the shimmering ruby pendant hanging at her throat.

Kern shook his head in amazement. What had gotten into the foolish elf? "Believe me, Listle, only an evil wizard would have summoned them. So they have to be evil."

"Is that so?" Listle said scathingly. Her silvery eyes were blazing. She spun around and flounced right through a wall of solid basalt. Kern could only gawk after her in bewilderment.

"What's the matter with her?" he asked in a wounded voice.

Shal regarded her son seriously, then sighed. "You're very pigheaded, Kern."

"Kern didn't do anything wrong," Anton protested. "Listle was talking nonsense."

The red-haired sorceress rolled her eyes. "Men!" she exclaimed, as if that were explanation enough. Kern, Tarl, and Anton wore looks of confusion.

"Oh, quit gaping like that," Shal snapped. "There are some things men never seem to learn."

The looks of confusion grew even worse. Shal smacked a palm against her forehead. "Never mind!" she said in exasperation.

With a groan, Shal left the three men and went in search of her apprentice. She finally found the elf in an unlikely place-sweeping the floor in Shal's own spellcasting chamber. It wasn't a task the elf generally volunteered to do. She must be upset, indeed, the sorceress thought.

After a long moment, Shal spoke gently. "Kern can be a bit stubborn, can't he?"

Listle looked up from her work in surprise. Then she nodded, sighing. "You can say that again."

Shal smiled fondly. "He's his father's son in that regard. But he didn't mean to upset you, Listle. You know that, don't you?"

The elf nodded. "I know, Shal. And I'm not mad at him, really." A faint, impish smile touched her lips. "Well, not much anyway."

Shal laughed at this. She took the broom from Listle's hands and sat the elf down in a chair. Then she brewed a pot of herbal tea over a small brazier and poured two cups full of the steaming, fragrant liquid.

Shal sat and regarded her apprentice thoughtfully for a moment. The truth was, Listle was almost as much a mystery to the sorceress as she was to Kern. The elf had shown up at the tower two years before, wanting to learn the craft of magic, and Shal did not have the heart to turn her down. Besides, Shal had sorely needed an apprentice to help out around the laboratory, and Listle had proved to be both a quick study and a hard worker, if a bit unpredictable at times.

Yet after two years, Shal knew little more of the elf than she had been told that first day. Listle's homeland was Evermeet, the land of the silver elves far across the western Sea of Swords, but she spoke of her past rarely. And Shal was not the type to pry.

Listle broke the silence. "Shal, tell me how Tarl first brought the Hammer of Tyr to Phlan. He had a difficult time, didn't he?"

The sorceress stared in surprise at Listle's unexpected question. Then she nodded. Sometimes the best way to forget your own troubles was to listen to someone else's. She sipped her tea, thinking.

"It was more than thirty years ago," Shal began. "Tarl had just become a cleric of Tyr-under Anton's watchful eye, of course-and he journeyed with a dozen of his brethren to Phlan. Their mission was to deliver the Hammer of Tyr to the temple that had just been built here, and to join the few clerics already in residence. You see, in those days, most of the ancient city of Phlan lay in ruins, overrun by creatures of evil. Only a few sections, small bastions of light and order, were civilized. As they arrived at the outskirts of the city, the clerics were attacked by the undead of Valhingen Graveyard." Shal shook her head sadly. "Of the newly arrived clerics, all but Tarl and Anton were killed, and a dread vampire stole the hammer."

Listle drew her knees up to her chin, caught up in the tale. "You were in the city then, too, weren't you, Shal?"

The sorceress nodded. "I had come by means of a wishing ring, in hopes of finding what had become of my master. I had the good fortune to meet Tarl, as well as our closest friend, the ranger, Ren o' the Blade."

She shook her head, smiling fondly at the memories of her first adventures with Tarl and Ren. "Together, the three of us discovered that the leader of the city's Council of Ten was in league with an evil dragon, the Lord of the Ruins. As it turned out, the councilman was responsible for the death of my dear master, who had stood in his way, as well as the death of Ren's beloved Tempest, a thief who had stolen the magical ioun stones the dragon needed to control the pool of radiance that lay in the ruins. Together, we managed to defeat both the council leader and the dragon. Then Tarl fought the vampire in Valhingen Graveyard. With his faith in Tyr, he was victorious, and regained the hammer."

Shal set down her empty teacup. "With the hammer resting on the altar in the temple of Tyr, it wasn't long before the city began to grow and prosper. More and more of the ruins were rebuilt, the monsters driven away. Phlan was truly restored, and it was the hammer's doing."

Listle nodded in understanding. "But with the hammer gone…"

"The process is reversing itself," Shal said grimly. "Eventually, Phlan will again become the ravaged place it was for so many centuries."

Listle's eyes went wide. "What are we going to do, Shal?" she asked breathlessly.

Shal tapped her chin thoughtfully. "I think I know someone who just might be able to help. The prophecy spoke of a magical pool somehow being involved in all of this, didn't it?"

Listle's head bobbed. "That's right. 'The twilight pool.'" She frowned, her bottom lip jutting out. "Whatever that is."

Shal laughed. "Well, there's only one expert on pools that I know of. Perhaps I should pay her a call. Come, let's go tell the others."

The dreamstalker approached the sleeper's chamber. The tower was surrounded by layer upon layer of magical wards and alarms, but they had caused no difficulty for the bastellus called Sigh. They were designed to keep corporeal foes at bay. They were useless against the dreamstalker.

The door to the sleeper's chamber was locked, but the darkness of his being slipped like black, oily smoke through the cracks around the door. The dreamstalker drifted silently toward the bed.

The sleeper was a young man with a broad, honest face and short red hair. Yes, he was the one. The wizard's spawn. Sigh's mistress, the sorceress Sirana, wanted him for her own. It was a simple enough task for the dreamstalker. He would slip into the young man's dreams and weave nightmares in his mind that would drive him to the brink of madness. It would be easy enough to brand the mistress's message in the sleeper's susceptible brain. Soon, the boy's only thought, his only desire, would be to become Sirana's willing slave.

Sigh hovered above the bed. The young man's brow was wrinkled. A low moan escaped his throat. He was already caught in the throes of a nightmare. Excellent, the bastellus thought. Most excellent. This would make his task easier yet. A smile of shardlike ivory teeth appeared in the haze.

Sigh reached out hands full of countless fingers, like dark, spindly twigs. He prepared to plunge into the dreamer's psyche, to revel in his victim's subconscious, and to feed upon his spirit. The twig-fingers brushed the young man's troubled brow.

The dreamstalker screamed in soundless, ethereal agony.

He had been burned! He looked down in astonishment to see that several of his dark, beautiful fingers had been transformed into a sticky mass of blue cobwebs. The bastellus writhed in pain. He had never known such a sensation before. Somehow the young man was immune to his touch.

Sigh shrank away from the hideous, vile human that had caused him pain. Blast Sirana! She could seduce the wretched creature herself. Sigh would have nothing more to do with this task.

The bastellus drifted quickly out the window and into the night, cradling his wounded hands. He would find another victim to feed upon, one with sweet, delicious dreams that would not harm his shadowy form.

Alone once more, the young man groaned in his sleep. Despite the bastellus's passing, the dreamer's nightmare-sent by the guardian of the hammer-had only just begun.

"You tricked us, Primul!" Listle fumed.

"What trick?" the big elf rumbled jovially, patting the fine golden chain around his waist. "Did you ask me if I had a magic belt? I certainly didn't hear you ask me if I had a magic belt."

"It doesn't matter," she countered, her silver eyes molten with fury.

"He's right, Listle," Kern said grimly. It had been his mistake to agree to the green elf's test Now he had to bear the consequences.

"Shut up, Kern," she snapped. "We already know that your skull is full of rocks." She angrily poked a finger against Primul's barrel chest. "Release him from the bargain, Primul. Now."

"Fine," the elf spat in disgust, his green eyes tinged with fiery crimson. "I'll release you, human, and you can run away with your dishonorable tail between your legs like a cur."

"No, Primul," Kern said calmly, surprised at the grit in his own voice. "I gave you my word. I won't back down." He held up a hand before Listle could protest. "I know what you're going to say. I have an important quest to complete. That's true. But if I break my word, then I am not a man of honor, and I don't deserve to be a true paladin. Tyr would never allow me to gain his hammer, anyway. It would all be for nothing. At least this way"-he gulped-"I die like a paladin. Tell my parents I died with honor." Kern's heart beat wildly in his chest

Listle stared at him, too stunned for further protest

"I'm ready, Primul." Kern knelt and bowed his head.

"Excellent," the massive elf said, easily hefting the heavy battle-axe in one hand.

Kern whispered a prayer to Tyr. He hadn't expected things to end up this way, but he hoped Tarl would not be too disappointed in him. At least he had preserved his honor.

"Prepare to meet your creator, human," Primul said with a deep, hearty chuckle. He raised the axe.

Kern forced himself to stare ahead. He was determined not to flinch. He would not show himself a coward.

"Now!" the green elf bellowed fearfully.

Kern steeled his will. He heard the axe whistling through the air as it descended. But Kern tapped an inner reservoir of strength and determination he did not realize he possessed. He did not even bat an eyelash.

At the last possible moment, Primul turned his fatal swing. The bright edge of the axe just brushed the skin of Kern's neck, nicking it. Kern felt a small, hot trickle of blood run down his back. Primul's good-natured laughter filled the chamber.

"Primul," Listle scolded, "if this is all your idea of a joke, let me be the first to tell you that I'm not laughing."

"It is no joke, Listle. Here, on your feet, human." He reached down a big hand and hoisted a rather stunned Kern to his feet. "If Kern here had begged for mercy, or had shown any sign of fear-even the slightest flinch-I would have happily hewn his head off." He put a friendly arm around Kern's shoulders, squeezing so hard Kern thought his eyes would pop out. "You showed yourself a man of courage, Kern. That was the test. The hammer is yours."

Kern couldn't suppress a jubilant grin, not in the least because his head was still attached to his shoulders. "Thank you, Primul."

"Don't thank me," Primul said, crossing his arms and tossing his long tail of golden hair back. "Honor the gift. Defeat your foes. That will be gratitude enough."

Hardly believing his good fortune, Kern slowly picked up the magical, beautifully marbled warhammer. "I will, Primul. I promise."

"Humph!" was all Listle said.

It was verging on dusk when Kern and Listle rode through the unguarded Death Gates and into the dank, murky streets of the city. The fog and rain did nothing to conceal Phlan's decay. If anything, the dreary elements emphasized the squalor and filth. The cold rain was gritty and acrid with soot, streaking all the city's buildings with dark, leprous stains. It was hard to tell which of the heaps in the gutters were piles of refuse and which were bloated, rat-gnawed corpses. All smelled vile. The loud rain did nothing to mask the curses, screams, and wicked laughter that drifted down from dimly lit windows.

Kern's spirits, so high after gaining the enchanted silver and steel warhammer, instantly plummeted. Even if he did manage to recover the Hammer of Tyr, he wondered if he could do it in time to save the fast deteriorating city.

The young warrior and elf rode into a desolate square. Once the marble fountain in its center had bubbled with clear, sweet water. Now black sludge oozed from the urn clasped by a stone cherub. The liquid gurgled sickeningly into the fountain's half-full basin. So much for watering the horses here, Kern thought glumly. He swung his palfrey in the direction of Denlor's Tower.

Pounding hoofbeats shattered the air.

Wide-eyed, Kern whirled his mount around. Listle did likewise with her dapple gray.

Both stared as a huge knight mounted on a coal-black charger thundered into the square.

The knight was clad in armor of purest jet, the oval of his shield as dark as a starless sky. His face was concealed by a visor, two crimson points of light glowing hungrily behind the narrow eye slit. Instead of a feathered plume, a gout of livid scarlet flame flickered atop the black knight's helm. The dark rider's onyx charger snorted crimson fire, and sulfurous smoke blasted out of flaring nostrils. Brilliant sparks flew from hooves that shattered cobblestones with every stride.

The black knight lowered his steel-tipped lance, digging cruelly barbed spurs into the charger's flanks. The horse let out a bloodcurdling sound as it leaped into a gallop. The black knight intended to run Kern through.

There was no time to consider options.

Kern dove out of the saddle. He hit the grimy cobbles hard and rolled, ignoring the flash of pain in his shoulder. The crushing hooves of the onyx charger passed so close, flying sparks left pinprick burns on Kern's skin.

Breathless, he staggered to his feet. The charger's momentum had carried it to the opposite side of the square, but already the black knight was wheeling the massive horse around.

"Listle, ride for the tower!" he shouted. The elf had guided her mount behind the scant protection of the marble fountain.

"What? And leave you to have all the fun?" she shouted back.

Kern cursed under his breath. Why didn't she ever do anything he told her to do? The black knight lowered his lance again, ready for another charge. Kern looked wildly about for cover, but there was nothing close by to do him any good. He made a pathetically easy target, standing there in the middle of the empty square.

"You don't suppose this is just another one of Primul's tests?" he called out to the elf hopefully.

"No," Listle snapped. "I don't."

"I didn't think so," Kern gulped.

The black knight dug in his spurs again, his crimson eyes glowing murderously. Blood streamed darkly down the charger's flanks as it lunged forward; its hoofbeats rent the air.

Deliberately, Kern reached for the steel and silver hammer at his belt. He gripped it firmly in both hands and raised it above his head, planting his feet on the slimy street. If he tried to run, his foe would simply skewer him in the back. He tensed his muscles, waiting for the right moment to hurl his hammer.

"Kern, no!" Listle screamed.

Abruptly a wall of searing fire ignited before the knight. Even from a distance, Kern could feel the scorching heat.

"Take that!" Listle cried.

The onyx charger didn't so much as pause. It galloped straight through the blazing barrier. The magical wall burst apart in a spray of harmless sparks, revealing itself as an illusion. The knight did not flinch. He lowered the tip of his lance. The steed charged.

Kern tensed, waiting… waiting for the precise moment in which to hurl the warhammer.

He never got the chance.

A streak of lightning crackled out of nowhere, striking the black knight.

The midnight charger reared up on its hind legs with a terrible whinny. Tendrils of magical energy crept up the knight's armor, snaking into the visor's eye slit. The lance burst asunder. The knight clenched a fist, letting out a horrible scream.

Another bolt of magical lightning exploded against the black knight's breastplate. This time Kern could discern its source-it came from the shadowed mouth of an alley on the edge of the square.

The charger reared again, then suddenly dissipated in a cloud of acrid smoke. The knight crashed to the cobbles and lay still. The flaming plume atop his helm guttered and died out. A few last sparks of magical energy skittered across his armor.

Cautiously Kern approached the fallen knight. With the toe of his boot, he tapped the scorched breastplate. A thin wisp of yellow smoke drifted out of the visor's eye slit. That was all.

"I think he's dead," Kern said grimly, returning the magical hammer to his belt.

"Oh? And what gave you that bright idea?" Listle said in a wan attempt at a jest. She couldn't stop shivering.

"Oh, he's well and truly dead," a rich, musical voice interjected.

Kern and Listle turned in surprise. A woman stepped from the dim arch of an alleyway.

She was beautiful. Her eyes and hair were a deep, dark color that seemed to glow with radiance. Her skin had a smooth, coppery sheen to it, and her features were finely wrought, almost aristocratic. She was obviously a wizard of some sort, but the white full-length robe she wore was different from the shapeless utilitarian smocks kindly old sorcerers favored. The shimmering cloth was diaphanous and slightly translucent in the fading daylight, hinting at an alluring shape underneath.

The woman walked fluidly toward Kern and Listle. The elf eyed her warily, but Kern offered a friendly smile.

"Are you hurt, good paladin?" the mysterious wizard asked kindly, her voice concerned.

"No, we're all right. Thanks to your spell, that is." Kern did his best to sound noble. She had called him paladin! He resisted the urge to shoot a smug glance at Listle. "Your intervention came just in time."

"Of course, we were doing just fine on our own," Listle noted sullenly.

"Of course," the wizard agreed, nodding graciously in Listle's direction.

Kern frowned at the elf. "But the help was welcome all the same," he added pointedly, smoothing over Listle's rude remark. Couldn't she even be civil to a stranger who had just saved their lives? Sometimes the elf infuriated Kern.

"I'm Kern Desanea," he ventured, "and this is Listle Onopordum."

The wizard held out a graceful hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Kern gripped the proffered hand and gave it an awkward shake. A slightly bemused expression crossed the wizard's face.

"I don't know how we can repay you for your help…" he said, hesitating gallantly, "but if there's anything we can do, you have only to ask."

"There's no need for repayment," the wizard replied with a dazzling smile. "Though it was a happy accident that I decided to journey all the way to Phlan this evening. I have been traveling south these last few days, from the Dragonspine Mountains. I intended to make camp north of the city this afternoon, but when it began to rain, I decided to push on. I'm glad now that I did." She cast a glance at the fallen knight. "Do you know who that villain was? Or why he might have had cause to attack you?"

"Something tells me it has to do with the quest I'm setting off on tomorrow."

"Quest?" the wizard asked.

"I'll be journeying in search of a holy relic, the Hammer of Tyr."

"A holy relic? That sounds like a terribly important task." Suddenly the wizard looked crestfallen. "And I suppose that means you wouldn't be able to… Oh, but never mind."

"What is it?" Kern asked.

"It's nothing, really…"

"Tell me," he insisted gently.

She hesitated, her expression unsure, then shrugged.

"I suppose there's no harm in telling you why I came to Phlan. I was hoping to find adventurers who might be willing to journey back to the Dragonspine Mountains with me. That's where my tower is. You see, I'm a wild mage. I learned magic from an old hermit rather than in a formal school in one of the cities on the Moonsea. But now the valley where my tower stands has been overrun by a band of gnolls. They…" She sighed deeply. "They killed my mentor. I suppose I ought to leave the valley, but it's always been my home. I can't just abandon it to those awful gnolls. Unfortunately, the monsters are too many for me to fight alone. So I came here, hoping to hire a few able warriors such as yourself to help me." She smiled briskly. "But you're busy, I can see, so I'll leave you to your-"

"Stop right there," Kern ordered. She gazed at him in evident surprise. "We owe you a great deal for what you did here. Now, I'm not certain how long my quest for the hammer will take, but you have my solemn promise that, as soon as my job is completed, I'll journey to your place in the mountains to teach those gnolls a lesson."

Listle rolled her eyes. "Oh, brother," she muttered. Preoccupied as he was with his own bold pronouncements, Kern did not hear her.

The wild mage chewed her lip delicately. Abruptly she laughed. "That is certainly kind of you, paladin. In return, I volunteer to accompany you on your journey, to help you find this hammer you're so terribly interested in. That way I can be certain you'll return in good enough health to be of some assistance to me. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough!" Kern agreed with a grin.

As they discussed the details, Kern felt his spirits rising. Tymora, Lady of Fortune, was smiling on him this evening, that was for certain. The mage promised to show up at the door of Denlor's Tower at dawn, and Kern and Listle bid her farewell.

"Wait a minute," Kern said, pausing as he and Listle turned to ride from the square. "We don't even know your name."

A smile glistened on the wild mage's copper-tinted lips.

"Sirana," she said in her rich, musical voice. "My name is Sirana."

The questers gathered in the courtyard before Denlor's Tower in the steely predawn light.

Kern saddled his white palfrey, making certain the saddlebags bulging with provisions were securely fastened. Listle was already sitting astride her dappled gray, but then the nimble elf never bothered with tedious details like saddles or reins. Nor did she need saddlebags. Countless small pouches-bulging with myriad spell components-hung around the wide strip of leather she had used to belt her oversized tunic of green wool.

Kern frowned as he glanced at the silver-eyed illusionist. He didn't recall asking Listle to accompany him on the quest. Not that he minded. Her magic was bound to come in handy. It just might have been nice if she had at least pretended the decision was up to him.

A thought struck him. "We don't have a horse for you, Sir…er…Sir Miltiades."

The undead knight had been standing silently on the edge of the courtyard in his archaic, intricately wrought armor. "There is no need to call me 'Sir,' Kern," Miltiades said. There was a faint note of humor in the ghostly voice that echoed inside the knight's faceplate.

Kern swallowed hard. "All right, Si-er, Miltiades. Should I go see if I they have a horse we can buy at the city's livery? It would only take a few minutes."

The paladin shook his head. "That will not be necessary. I have my own steed to bear me."

From a black velvet pouch, Miltiades drew a small ivory figurine carved in the likeness of a horse. He set the carving on the ground, uttering a single sibilant word. The figurine flared brightly, and suddenly a magnificent, snow-white horse stood in the courtyard. The animal tossed its shining mane, its silver-studded barding jingling pleasantly.

"That's a handy trick," Listle said, gazing at the equine in open admiration. "Instantaneous horse."

"It is good to see you again, Eritophenes." Miltiades greeted the horse, and the magical stallion snorted, stamping a hoof in reply. The feeling was apparently mutual.

Kern shivered, but he wasn't certain if it was from the morning chill or from standing so close to the undead paladin. While everything about Miltiades' manner was noble and kind, it was hard for Kern to forget that the paladin was… well, dead, for lack of a better description. A coldness always seemed to linger near the knight, along with a faint, dusty aroma that reminded Kern of the graveyard. Needless to say, the paladin's presence was going to take a little getting used to.

The wild mage, Sirana, appeared out of the shadows, astride a skittish roan stallion with a perfect white star on its forehead. When she saw Kern, she smiled.

"Are you ready for your quest, paladin?" she asked in her sultry voice.

Kern blushed, mumbling something unintelligible in reply. Sirana's stunning smile widened.

The wild mage wore only a cream-colored traveling cloak over her thin white robe. This warranted a clear look of disapproval on Listle's part. However, before the elf could comment, Tarl and Anton stepped out of the tower, bearing a few more odds and ends the travelers might find useful on their journey.

Both clerics had been astonished to see their old friend Miltiades that morning, but pleased, of course. It was certainly a sign that Tyr favored them, Anton had said.

"You're riding off on a grand adventure, Kern," the grizzled patriarch said wistfully. "I almost wish I could journey with you." A hopeful light shone in his eyes.

"No, Patriarch Anton, it is not fated to be," Miltiades said, understanding Anton's look.

"But there are only four of you," Anton protested. "The prophecy states that five should journey in search of the hammer."

"The fifth we will meet before we reach our destination," Miltiades answered. "That much Tyr has revealed to me, though who the fifth will be, I cannot say." The paladin laid a cold gauntlet on the big cleric's shoulder. "Besides, good Anton. Something tells me your strength will be needed here in Phlan while we are away. Your strength, and that of Tarl Desanea."

The patriarch hung his head forlornly for a moment. Then he looked up, laughing. "Oh, who am a fooling?" he rumbled. "I always break out in saddle sores after ten minutes of riding. Leave the quests to the young ones." He looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Er, present company excluded, of course."

"Of course," Miltiades murmured.

Tarl stepped forward and gripped his son's arms tightly. "May Tyr go with you, Kern."

"I'll do my best, Father," Kern said quietly.

The white-haired cleric nodded, his expression intent. "I know you will, Son. Shal and I will be waiting for you."

Neither had to say that speed was of the essence. Time was Shal's greatest enemy now. Kern had to act swiftly to gain the hammer and return before it was too late. Father and son embraced tightly.

It was time to bid farewell.

The four riders guided their mounts out of the courtyard of Denlor's Tower. The quest for the lost hammer had begun.

The denizens of the coffin walls rattled their bones in a mockery of laughter. Bits of broken teeth and tatters of mummified flesh rained down on Kern. The darkness of the nave hungrily swallowed the light of his holy shield. He shook his head against the dizzying stench and struggled to control the dream.

Behold, Hammerseeker! I have a gift for you.

Like moldering curtains of suffocating velvet, the darkness parted, revealing a sarcophagus fashioned of corpse-pale stone. A death mask was carved into the heavy lid, showing the likeness of a young man with blankly staring eyes. The face was Kern's. With a sound like grinding bones, the lid of the sarcophagus slowly shifted to one side.

Come, climb within, paladin of Tyr. You cannot refuse my gift.

Kern steeled his will. Somehow, he had to turn the nightmare to his own advantage.

"I… I was wrong to resist you," he said dully, keeping his gaze blank. "The majesty of… of your darkness is too great."

At last, you have gained wisdom, youngling. The voice in the darkness spoke with satisfaction.

"Never could I have slain you," Kern went on in a fawning voice, preparing himself for a gamble. He took a deep breath. "Never could I have come close enough to strike at your one weakness."

Weakness? the voice shrieked. Kern shuddered under the brutal force of its outrage. I am as powerful as the darkness itself. I have no weakness!

Kern bowed his head in a perfect semblance of trembling submission. "Of course, Great One! I was foolish to believe the tales I was told!"

Laughter gushed out of the nave like putrid water. Pitiful youngling! Were you told that you could simply cut the thread that binds me to my web? How terribly easy it must have sounded! Ah, how cruel are those who spoke such lies to you. Something stirred in the darkness, something with spindly, ghost-white limbs. No magic you possess could ever sever me from the source of my power, youngling.

Kern felt a surge of hope. He was certain that, in its pride, the creature had let slip an important secret. But what was it?

Enough of this, Hammerseeker! The end has come, and you have lost.

Suddenly, Kern's hopes were transformed into terror. Tentacles of shadow snaked out of the sarcophagus, coiling tightly around him. He struggled in horror, but could not break free of their stranglehold.

At last, triumph is mine!

Kern screamed as the tentacles dragged him into the cold, confining interior of the sarcophagus, pinning his limbs in place. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

The coffin lid began to slide into place…

The day after Kern and his companions set off for the ruins of the red tower, Evaine decided it was time to embark on a mission of her own.

She rose in the cold of predawn and, teeth chattering, hastily donned thick woolen breeches and a tunic of her favorite mossy green. Deftly, she bound her long chestnut hair into a braid, winding it in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. As she did, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a teardrop-shaped mirror. A gaunt, ghostly pale face with deep, shadowed eyes peered back at her. She still bore the scars of her astral battle with the guardian of the twilight pool, but she had waited as long as she dared — too long perhaps. She would just have to be strong enough.

From the tiny pocket dimension that served as her spellcasting chamber, she gathered the ingredients she would require to work her spells: many-colored crystals, iridescent powders, and small, neatly folded parchment packets filled with herbs. These she placed in a small pack, adding her copper brazier and-carefully wrapped in oiled leather-her spellbook. She remembered to grab a golden brooch set with a single ice-clear jewel, the twin to the magical gem she had given Miltiades. This she pinned to her tunic.

A quick look around told her she had forgotten nothing. She descended the glowing spiral staircase into the warm main room of her log-walled dwelling. Gamaliel was waiting for her. The great cat sat before the fire, tail wrapped around his paws. His eyes were narrow, green-gold slits.

Please tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing, Evaine, the cat growled in the sorceress's mind.

"As you like, Gam," she murmured pleasantly. Inwardly she steeled herself for an argument.

In case you haven't noticed, I'm not laughing.

"Don't blame me if you have a poor sense of humor," Evaine replied flippantly. She banished the shimmering stairway with a snap of her fingers.

Gamaliel's whiskers twitched in agitation. You aren't well enough to travel, Evaine, let alone cast your detection spells-or face the guardian of the pool of twilight.

Evaine knelt beside her familiar. "Gam, I could tell you that I'm fine," she said solemnly. "I could tell you that I'm as strong as I've ever been. But that would be a lie. I've never lied to you, Gamaliel, and I don't intend to start now." She sighed, her heart heavy. "You may be right, of course. I may be in grave peril if I try to confront the guardian of the twilight pool in my current state. But years ago I vowed never to rest while there was a pool yet to be destroyed, and ever since then I've tried to abide by that oath. I can't betray my vow, Gam. What good would I be if I did?"

The great cat regarded her silently for a long moment, his green-gold eyes glowing.

Don't you have some more things to pack? he said at last.

The sorceress laughed, feeling better than she had in a long while. "That I do." A slight frown touched her lips. "Wait a minute," she said with gentle indignation. "Who's the master here, anyway?"

Gamaliel did not reply, so Evaine decided not to press the question. After all, she decided, she might not care for the answer.

She briskly gathered some other items. Fire she could call up with a spell, and most of the food required the land-and Gamaliel's hunting abilities-would provide. She placed a few extra clothes and some hardtack in a magical sack that grew no heavier despite its contents, such being the useful nature of its enchantment. She belted a knife forged of sharp dwarven steel at her hip and donned her heavy sheepskin coat. Hefting her small pack, she grinned at Gamaliel.

"Ready?"

Of course. Unlike you humans, cats do not need to pack before they can begin a journey. Our coats and weapons come permanently attached. He extended his razor-sharp claws for emphasis. It's much more convenient that way.

Being a practical-minded woman, Evaine had to agree.

Leaving the snug house behind, they set off northward. Bare winter branches stood out against the rose-colored morning sky, tracing dark shapes in the air like a jumble of arcane runes. Evaine and Gamaliel quickly fell into their accustomed traveling habits. The great cat loped soundlessly ahead, scouting the terrain for danger, while the sorceress kept her eyes open for any interesting herbs or bushes. Though most plants of magical use were dormant in winter, there were a few of value that could be gathered at this time of year. Into Evaine's pouches went juniper berries, holly leaves, and snowheart blooms. These last were rare crimson flowers that grew only beneath a shroud of newly fallen snow.

Come dusk, Evaine was thoroughly exhausted. Her joints felt stiff and cold despite her heavy coat. Yet the day had gone more smoothly than she might have expected. She and Gamaliel had made good time, putting nearly a half-dozen leagues behind them. The fresh air and exercise seemed to invigorate her. Her cheeks showed patches of pink where shadows had gathered only that morning.

Deciding it would be safe to leave the sorceress unattended for a short while, Gamaliel bounded off between the trees into the fading purple twilight. Evaine busied herself setting up their camp beneath the sheltering boughs of an ancient fir tree. She laid a pile of dried wood inside a ring of stones, debating whether she should ignite it with a spell or by more mundane methods. Several days had passed since her candle-lighting incantation had caused searing pain, and that incident was still fresh in her mind. However, she would have no choice but to cast far more potent magics in the days ahead.

"There's no point in putting it off any longer, Evaine," she muttered to herself.

She took a deep breath, then began reciting the spell, fashioning intricate but long-familiar gestures with strong, large-knuckled hands. The final word of the spell hung on the air like the tone of a bell. As it faded, Evaine felt a sudden rush of heat. Panic clutched her heart, but a moment later she found herself laughing.

"Next time, don't sit so close to the fire, silly," she chided herself. She let out a sigh of relief. The spell had worked. And there had been no surge of pain. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

A shadow stole into the circle of flickering firelight, green-gold eyes flashing.

Care for some supper? the magical cat inquired, dropping two sleek, silvery shapes into Evaine's lap.

"Fish," she noted, picking up the two big rainbow trout "My, what a surprise."

Don't look a gift fish in the mouth, Evaine.

She laughed, pulling out her knife to clean the fish. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Consciousness came with crushing pain.

Kern's breaths were shallow, burning gasps. He couldn't seem to move his arms or legs. The darkness was suffocating.

"I must be dreaming again," he whispered hoarsely.

"It is no dream, Kern," an eerie voice spoke in the gloom.

Kern sighed in relief. "Miltiades… where are we?"

"In this darkness, who can say?" the undead paladin replied from somewhere nearby.

"Then let's cast a little light on the subject," a familiarly flippant voice added. "Zarjia!" Pale silver light broke through the darkness.

"Maybe casting a light spell wasn't such a good idea after all," Listle remarked bleakly as her eyes surveyed the scene. "Sometimes things look better in the dark."

The five adventurers were being held captive in a catacomb of some sort. Yellowed bone lashed together with dried sinew bonded them to five shallow stone alcoves. Kern craned his head to see Daile and Miltiades to his left, struggling in vain against the skeletal bonds. Listle and Sirana were pinned tightly to his right. Kern tried to move his arms, but the scabrous bones only tightened cruelly. They were trapped.

"I have a feeling we aren't the first guests ever to visit this enchanting place," Listle observed with a gulp.

Kern saw that more alcoves lined the catacomb's walls in either direction. Many were occupied. A mummified owlbear opened its maw in an endless scream, and several decomposing hobgoblins clawed at their bonds, shriveled faces twisted into masks of horror.

The elf, face pale, chewed her lip. "And something tells me that getting in is a whole lot easier than getting out."

"Sirana, can you cast a spell that might free us?" Kern asked the wild mage.

She shook her head. "Not if I can't move my hands." Her dark eyes flashed in frustration. "Powerful magic requires intricate gestures. I can't simply wiggle my ears and teleport us out of here."

An idea struck Kern. "Listle, couldn't you simply pass right through your bonds? You do it with walls all the time."

"I already thought of that, Kern. Unfortunately, I can only pass through inanimate objects." Listle grimaced as the skeletal arms tightened their hold on her. "And these things are definitely not inanimate."

"Perhaps you should not focus on your bonds, Listle," Miltiades suggested.

Her small, elven nose wrinkled. "Wait a minute. I understand! The bones holding me may be animate, but the stones aren't." Her ruby pendant flared brightly. Without warning the elf sank backward into the stone wall of the alcove. Long moments passed.

Abruptly, Listle stepped out of a basaltic column carved with twisted gargoyles.

"Ugh!" She said disgustedly. "That was definitely not pleasant! You really wouldn't believe the stuff that accumulates behind walls in places like this." She hastily brushed bits of dried cobweb and ancient grime from her green tunic. "Now, let me see what I can do about these uncooperative bones, Kern."

However, try as she might, none of Listle's spells and no amount of tugging could break the scabrous bonds.

"All right, Kern, there's one last thing I can try." Listle took a deep breath. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I don't think I have much choice."

"Listle, what in the world are you talking about?" Kern asked in exasperation.

"Just hold on tight. And whatever you do, don't let go."

Her ruby necklace glowing, Listle disappeared into the floor. Kern wondered what the unpredictable elf was up to. Moments later, he found out as two slender hands reached out of the stones behind him and jerked him backward-right through the solid surface of the wall!

It was far worse than any nightmare. Kern could feel the rock passing through his body with a hideous, slithering sensation. Solid stone filled his heart and lungs, almost choking him. It was horrible. After what seemed an eternity, Listle hauled him up through the catacomb's floor. He gasped for breath. The others stared in surprise.

"Next time just let me starve to death, Listle," Kern said, shuddering in revulsion. "It couldn't be any worse than that." He hauled himself to his feet as the elf slumped weakly against a column, her face alarmingly pale.

"Listle, are you all right?" Miltiades asked in concern.

She nodded. "I'm fine. Really."

"Are you sure?" Kern asked. He reached out to grip the elf's shoulder, but his fingers passed right through her.

"I said I'm fine!" Listle snapped, stumbling away from him. "Do you hear me? Now why don't you see to the others with that precious hammer of yours?" She retreated into the shadows.

Kern gaped at his hand. Had it simply been his imagination? He wondered if the others had seen what he had seen. But no, he realized, his body blocked their view.

Shaking his head, he turned his attention to his companions. One blow of Primul's enchanted warhammer was all it took to shatter the skeletal bonds. In moments, Daile, Miltiades, and Sirana were free. Listle stepped from the shadows to rejoin them.

It was only then, as they all stood together, that Kern realized one of the companions was missing. He had been so preoccupied with their predicament that he had not noticed until now.

"Daile," he asked the young ranger with a frown, "where is Ren?"

The look in her eyes made his heart stop. He watched her with growing dread.

Daile swallowed hard, stumbling over the words. Her voice was bleak. "We were attacked by a fiend outside the guard tower," she finally managed to say, her voice trembling. "He slew it, but it… it…" She drew a ragged breath. "My father is dead," she said quietly. "Ren o' the Blade is dead."

Miltiades hung his head. "Then this day Faerun has become a darker place indeed."

Patriarch Anton watched intently as Sister Sendara, augur of the Temple of Tyr, let the runestones slip through her fine-boned fingers. The timeworn pebbles, each carved with a holy symbol, tumbled onto a round silver plate. The wizened priestess peered at the stones, studying the pattern they made as they fell.

"What do you see in the temple's future, Sister Sendara?" Anton asked softly. The two were alone in a small candlelit antechamber off the temple's main hall.

"A moment, Anton," Sendara scolded. "Fate cannot be rushed."

Anton smiled at this gentle rebuke. Of all the clerics left in Phlan's temple of Tyr, only Sendara was older than he was, and only she spoke to him in such a familiar manner. If sometimes she was not as respectful to the patriarch as custom dictated, Anton took no offense. After all, Sendara had been a full cleric of the faith when he could do little more than coo and slumber in his mother's arms.

"These are ill-tidings," she said finally in a cracked voice.

"What is it?" Anton glowered at the stones scattered across the silver platter. They meant nothing to his untrained eyes.

"A shadow approaches the temple of Tyr." Sendara's dark eyes were like bright chips of obsidian. "A foe who has attacked us once before gathers together even greater strength. Soon we will be awash in a sea of darkness."

"Are you certain?"

The ancient priestess frowned at Anton, hands on the hips of her soft gray robe. "It's not as if I'm making this up for dramatic effect, you know."

Anton sighed deeply, placing his hands on her thin shoulders. "I know, Sendara. I know. It is difficult news to bear, that's all."

"As will be the dark days to come." Sendara extricated herself from his grasp. "But there is more, Anton, and on this the runes speak clearly." She gazed at the scattered stones again. "Phlan has suffered many foes and many battles in its history. But none have ever been so dire, or so important, as this. We must prevail in our coming trials, or all will be lost."

"What do you mean, Sendara?"

"I mean, Anton," she said somberly, "that if the temple of Tyr falls before the hammer is returned, then all of Phlan is doomed. Forever."

She gathered her runestones and slipped them into a small silken pouch, leaving Anton alone in the antechamber to contemplate her words. A chill had settled in the old patriarch's bones, but he didn't know if it was from the wintry air or Sendara's frightening words. He found himself wondering once again how Kern and the others were faring on their quest for Tyr's hammer.

A thought struck him. He left the antechamber, making his way through the temple's upper corridors. It was after vespers, and candles had been lit against the gathering gloom outside. He knocked on a small wooden door and entered a room, finding Tarl Desanea sitting in a stiff-backed chair. His stricken wife lay before him. Tarl had moved her from their tower to the sanctuary of the temple several days before. Anton could hear her breathing, painfully slow in its rhythm.

"It's dark in here," the patriarch rumbled softly, lighting a candle.

Tarl shrugged his massive shoulders. "It isn't as if either Shal or I care."

Anton winced. Sometimes he forgot that Tarl was blind.

"You didn't come to evening prayers." Anton sat in a chair next to his friend.

"I said my prayers here," Tarl answered. His voice was flat and toneless, but Anton caught the bitterness in it.

Anton took a deep breath. "Have you received any sign that might tell you how the Hammerseeker fares, Brother Tarl? Any word from Tyr?"

Tarl's blind eyes seemed to gaze out the darkened window. "Nothing. I have felt nothing."

After a moment's hesitation, Anton decided to tell Tarl his reason for asking. He recounted the augury that Sister Sendara had just prescribed. If the temple fell, Phlan would be lost.

Tarl turned his sightless eyes toward Anton. "Phlan will be lost?" His haggard voice was almost mocking. "If Kern does not return, Anton, my family will be lost. If Kern perishes, then so will Shal. I will have no one." He hung his head, at a loss for more words.

Anton's shaggy eyebrows knitted into a scowl. Lately, Tarl had been sinking into a black despair, but Anton had not realized how hopeless the cleric's attitude was until now. This could not go on. "There are others besides you and your loved ones to think of, cleric of Tyr," Anton said sternly. "Regardless of whether the Hammerseeker succeeds or fails, the temple must stand. All of us must be ready to fight the coming battle."

"Really?" Tarl asked hoarsely. "And how does a blind cleric fight, Anton? Shall I have good Brother Dameron point me toward the enemy and kindly tell me when to start swinging?" He shook his head fiercely. "No. I wish you luck in your battle, Anton, but my own battle is here." He reached out a hand to smooth Shal's fiery hair from her pallid brow.

Anton rose from his chair, suddenly angry. "Do not speak to me of your private battles, Tarl. I have watched as, one by one, our brothers and sisters have been struck down by the scourges sent by the gods of evil, the enemies of Tyr. I have watched as foul disease rotted their bodies in the space of an hour, and as searing flames consumed them in an agonizing minute, all because the temple's aura could no longer protect them."

Anton clenched his big hands into fists. "The day you survived the scourge sent against you, Tarl, I was filled with joy. It gave me hope that the temple could withstand the evil with which the gods of darkness afflict Phlan. But now I see that I was wrong." He paused by the door, his face grim. "We have lost you after all, Brother Tarl."

The patriarch left, shutting the door behind him.

Tarl clenched his hands into fists. Who was Anton to speak to him so, as if he were simply some sulky acolyte feeling sorry for himself? Why couldn't he see there was nothing Tarl could do to help the temple, let alone his wife and son?

But gradually the rage ebbed in Tarl's heart.

A remembered voice echoed in his mind. Never forget, husband. You are the same man you always were.

Shal. She would have agreed with Anton, Tarl knew. But her words seemed so distant now, so hollow.

"I am different, Shal," he whispered to her sleeping form, reaching out a hand to grip hers tightly. "And I will never be the same again."

"I don't know what's getting into me, Gam."

Evaine dragged herself out of her bedroll, blinking blearily in the brilliant morning light. This was the third day in a row she had woken feeling as if she had been up fighting battles all night long. Her dark eyes looked sunken, her skin sallow. She sighed as she sat cross-legged on her bedroll, slowly chewing a piece of hardtack. Even eating seemed a chore.

You push yourself too hard, Evaine, Gamaliel's voice entered her mind. And though you do not admit it, the cold bothers you.

"I don't mind it," Evaine countered, but in the same instant she gave a shiver, belying her words. The mountain cold seemed to seep right through her heavy coat and into her bones.

You never were a very good liar, Gamaliel noted.

"Then I guess I'll just have to practice some more, won't I?" Evaine replied archly. The great cat's whiskers twitched in annoyance.

The sorceress set aside the hardtack. She knew she had to eat to keep up her strength, but she had little appetite. She gathered her willpower and stood, trembling as she gained her feet. Stiffly, she gathered her things and shrugged on her backpack.

"Let's go, Gam."

She started off through the snow, followed by her familiar. Evaine was certain they were nearing the pool of twilight. She had cast her scrying spell several times these last few days, at several different locations. After each try, she had taken out her magical map of the mountains and, with a shining green line, marked the general direction of the spell. The pool was most likely concealed where the lines intersected. It was only a matter of time-and spells-before Evaine pinpointed the location exactly.

She could only hope that when she finally did find it, she would still have enough strength to destroy the pool of twilight.

She found herself wondering how Miltiades and the others were faring. Reflexively she reached up to touch the brooch of communication-but her fingers met only a small tear in her tunic. The brooch was gone. She sighed. How she had lost the gem, she did not know. Now there was no way for her to contact the others.

By midday the forest had thinned, giving way to a field of boulders that sloped toward a sheer cliff. Climbing the cliff with its crumbling overhangs looked to be an impossibility. However, a small stream had cut a steep but passable ravine into the cliff face. Picking their way carefully across the loose scree, sorceress and cat started up the defile.

Evaine quickly realized they were not the first travelers to have come this way. Indeed, they stumbled upon a faint but distinguishable path, marked here and there by small cairns. When the ravine widened into a broad, boulder-strewn bowl, Evaine saw the remains of a temple perched on the cliff top, now perhaps two hundred feet above them. It looked as if half of the structure had slid into the valley centuries ago, and what remained was wind-worn and roofless. But several colonnades of broken columns still stood, and a section of crumbling wall suggesting some sort of nave.

Evaine marveled at the ruin, wondering who had built a hall for their god in this place so long ago. It must have been a very holy site, she thought. Even now there was a peculiar serenity about the weathered columns that reached toward the azure dome of the sky.

The path continues up to the temple, Gamaliel spoke in his mistress's mind.

Evaine nodded, and the two began to wend their way among the jagged boulders up the narrow path.

"Do you hear thunder?" she asked her familiar, frowning.

Winter is not the time for thunderstorms.

Evaine gazed at the sky. There wasn't a cloud in sight. She was about to accredit the noise she had heard to her imagination when suddenly she heard it again. It was louder this time, a low rumbling that grew with each passing second.

Evaine, look out!

The sorceress jerked her head up and gasped. A huge boulder bounced down the ravine toward the two travelers, pulverizing other rocks in its path. Gamaliel leaped toward her, knocking her aside. Entwined, the two rolled beneath a low granite overhang.

A second later, the boulder struck the overhang and bounced past, missing Evaine and Gamaliel by a matter of inches.

"You didn't have to be quite so rough," Evaine said testily, wriggling out of the crevice and brushing herself off. "A simple 'Duck!' would have been sufficient."

You're welcome, Evaine, Gamaliel replied wryly.

This made her laugh despite their close call. She scratched him affectionately behind the ears, then started back up the path that followed the narrow gully.

Moments later, another deep rumbling echoed down the ravine.

They were better prepared for the boulder this time, scrambling out of its path before it hurtled by. But they had barely resumed their trek up the ravine when the booming noise began anew.

"This is getting ridiculous," Evaine said in growing annoyance as the third boulder tumbled past the mouth of the shallow cave into which they had quickly scrambled.

Once that boulder was out of sight, the sorceress found an ancient-looking cedar tree, gnarled and twisted by years of strong winds. She pulled herself up to its highest branches, which afforded a better view of the cliff top. What she saw made her stare in amazement.

"I think I've found the source of those boulders," she called down to Gamaliel.

Even as she pointed, a huge man-shaped form lumbered mechanically from between the temple's colonnades. The creature carried a massive boulder in its arms, moving toward a crumbling wall that ended abruptly at the cliff's edge. When the gigantic creature reached the end of the wall, it dropped the rock, and the fourth boulder started its noisy journey down the mountainside. Apparently unperturbed, the creature lumbered back through the temple to pick up another boulder and begin the sequence anew.

After watching this go on for a few minutes, Evaine scrambled down the tree.

What is that creature, Evaine? Gamaliel's tail twitched in agitation.

"I think it's a stone golem."

A golem?

Evaine nodded. "A creature made of some inert substance that has been magically animated-wood, iron, clay, or, in this case, stone." She winced as another boulder bounced past them down the ravine. "Which means that it's big, immeasurably strong, and almost completely impervious to injury."

I don't suppose you know why it keeps on tossing boulders down the ravine?

Evaine rubbed her narrow chin in thought. "I don't really know, unless…" Her eyes flashed.

"A golem is a mindless creatures, Gam," she explained excitedly. "Its creator can give it only the simplest instructions, and the golem will perform those instructions literally. It could be that, long ago, this golem's creator ordered it to keep the temple in good repair. But some disaster befell the temple. Half of the structure slid down the side of the cliff, and the rest was abandoned."

But the stone golem continued to try to repair the temple.

"Right. Every time the golem puts a boulder where the wall used to be, the rock falls into the ravine. But the golem isn't smart enough to realize what's happening. All it sees is that the wall needs another stone, so it tries to rebuild again and again."

How long will the golem keep trying to rebuild that one wall? Wind ruffled the great cat's tawny fur.

"Unless it's destroyed, forever." Evaine gazed up the ravine. "Which means it's going to be hard for us to reach the top of the cliff. My guess is that it will take us about fifteen minutes to climb the last stretch of the ravine. But it only takes the golem a few minutes to find another boulder and drop it." She shook her head in frustration. "There's no cover up there. We'd be crushed before we ever made it to the top."

If only the golem would drop himself over the edge of the cliff. Gamaliel growled angrily.

Evaine snapped her fingers. "Gam, that's it!" She started picking her way up the ravine. "Come on! We have to edge closer for my plan to work."

The two continued up the defile, every few minutes hiding under overhangs or squeezing inside cracks to avoid the tossed boulders. When they reached the final section of the ravine, they could see its sheer sides offered little protection. Already the golem was lumbering toward the broken end of the wall, bearing yet another boulder.

"This will have to do," Evaine muttered.

As the golem approached the precipice, she chanted the words of a spell. Suddenly a chunk of rock several feet wide quivered and liquefied into mud, sliding down into the ravine. Impervious to this change in its path, the golem lurched to the edge of the cliff.

For a moment, the golem teetered on the precipice. Then, without the slightest resistance, it toppled over the edge. Golem and boulder went tumbling down the ravine in a spray of rock.

Evaine grinned, watching the creature plummet into the valley. A simple idea, but it had worked! "After you, Gam," she said. The two started toward the cliff top. Exhausted by the spell, Evaine could not move very fast, but there was less reason to hurry, now that the golem was gone.

They had made scant progress when a clattering of stone caused them to pause and gaze below. Evaine drew in a sharp breath of surprise.

The stone golem was climbing up the ravine.

The fall had not so much as scratched the creature. The golem moved with astonishing quickness, using its huge hands to help pull itself up.

As quickly as she could manage, Evaine hurried up the rest of the slope. Gamaliel shimmered into his human shape, using his strong arms to help her. She heaved herself up over the cliff's edge, Gamaliel right behind. The golem was mere seconds below.

The sorceress tried to ready a spell, but fear seized her mind; she couldn't think clearly. Gamaliel shimmered into his cat form to defend her, ready to fight the golem. Evaine knew that would be folly. The magical creature had the strength to rip both of them to shreds.

The stone golem reached the top, towering over Evaine and Gamaliel, blotting out the sun with its bulk. The creature raised its huge arms, lurching forward.

Evaine shut her eyes, hoping the end would be quick.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Finally, Gamaliel spoke in her mind. Evaine, open your eyes.

Reluctantly, she did as he asked. What she saw made her gasp in astonishment, then laugh aloud.

The stone golem went right past them, resuming its mindless task. Even now it was heading toward the crumbling wall carrying another boulder. As Evaine watched, the golem reached the muddy cliff's edge-and without hesitating toppled once again into the ravine!

It will do that forever, won't it? Gamaliel asked. It will never learn.

Evaine nodded. "But thankfully, we won't be around to watch it." Weakly, she pulled herself to her feet. "Let's go, Gam."

They started off through the ruined temple, leaving the golem to its ceaseless labor.

Tarl stood on a balcony high in the temple of Tyr, breathing the wintry air. He turned his gaze out over where he knew the city lay, though all his eyes saw was perpetual darkness. Twilight had fallen, he knew, for he could no longer feel the faint warmth of the sun on his face. But he welcomed the numbing cold of night.

There had been no news of Kern or the others in the last days. No omen that might hint whether his son was alive or dead. Nothing. Anton said again and again that they must have faith, but Tarl found faith to be slight comfort. Faith could not whisk his son to his side. Faith could not heal Shal, who lay slowly, inexorably dying in her chamber.

Perhaps he would not feel so bad, Tarl thought, if there were anything he could do. Anything. But he was powerless. Nothing he did could wake Shal from her endless slumber or drive the shadows from her face. Nothing he could do would help Kern on his quest for the hammer. He couldn't even be of much help to his fellow clerics, who scurried about the temple like frightened mice, trying to fortify the structure against the dark onslaught Sister Sendara had foretold. Though he had tried to provide some assistance, he had only gotten in the way.

Tarl gripped the balustrade with white-knuckled hands. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for an end-some end-to come.

Finally, even the cold of the night was too much for him to bear. It was time to go back inside, to sit by Shal's side.

Yet as Tarl started to step away from the balustrade, he saw something that made him hesitate. Something that moved in the veil of darkness.

He frowned. There it was again-a small splotch that was a deeper jet against the blackness of his vision. He blinked, wondering if this was some figment of his imagination. But no, even as he watched, the spot grew, like a far-off object edging closer.

"This cannot be," Tarl whispered as the dark blob grew larger yet. "How can I see something unless it is…"

Realization washed over him.

Magic!

Whatever was approaching the temple was magical in nature. As he had learned these last years, magic was one thing his otherwise useless eyes could discern. But what was the magical shape?

Tarl leaned forward, concentrating on the dark cloud. As it neared, he realized that it was composed of dozens of smaller objects, each surrounded by a faint crimson aura. As the swarm of objects drew closer, the shapes became clearer with each passing second.

"By Tyr above," Tarl gasped.

The dark cloud was not made up of objects, but of fiends.

Tarl waited for the temple's magical alarms to sound. The shadow fiends were flying swiftly upon their midnight-dark wings. They were mere minutes away from the temple's walls. Surely some of the other clerics had seen them by now.

But the night remained deathly silent.

"Sound the alarm," Tarl gritted between his teeth. "Are you all asleep? Sound the alarm!"

No hue-and-cry rang out. Then Tarl realized the obvious. The others could not see the shadow fiends. They were invisible to mundane eyes. Without further hesitation, he turned and dashed inside. He bashed his shins against an unseen chair but, ignoring the pain, stumbled on. He caught his shoulder on the door frame, and pain exploded in his chest, but he ignored that, too. He had to warn the others. Careening down the corridor like a madman, he began shouting.

"Beware, clerics of Tyr! A foe comes in the night! Beware!"

When he came to the stairs leading to the main hall, he would have fallen and broken his neck had not Sister Corenna, a cleric of middle years, been there to catch him. He explained what he had observed in short, gasping sentences. An intelligent woman with nerves as steely as her eyes, Sister Corenna quickly helped Tarl downstairs and called for order among the small throng of clerics that had responded to Tarl's cry.

"Shadow fiends approach the temple," Tarl announced urgently. "We must act. They will be here in mere minutes."

"Shadow fiends?" Brother Dameron asked. The stout, round-faced young cleric wore a skeptical expression. "I've never heard of such a thing. Are you certain you're not mistaken, Brother Tarl?"

Tarl caught the note of condescension in the scholarly cleric's voice.

"What is it, Brother Dameron?" Tarl snarled. "Do you think me a blind simpleton, is that it? An old man who's lost his wits as well as his sight?"

Dameron's jaw worked soundlessly in surprise at the intensity in Tarl's voice.

"Forgive us, Tarl," Anton said. The grizzled patriarch's voice was grave and calm. "You have caught us off guard, that is all. Quickly, tell us what should we do."

"They are creatures of darkness," Tarl said without hesitation. "We must strengthen the temple's defenses against the substance that forms them."

He pulled his ceremonial hammer from his belt and, despite his unseeing eyes, swung it in a precise arc. It struck a green stone circle in the center of the hall's floor. Under the force of his powerful blow, the circle of stone sank into the floor with a hissing sound. There was a loud grinding overhead as seven lines appeared on the inside surface of the bronze dome. Like the petals of a huge, metallic flower, the dome split into seven sections, each receding slowly into the temple's walls to reveal a perfect circle of night sky.

"What have you done, Tarl?" Dameron cried in horror. "If foes do approach, you've just opened the temple for them!"

"Walls are no proof against creatures of shadow," Tarl replied intently. "It is with magic that we will stop these beings, and for that we must have a clear view." He raised his warhammer toward the circle of the sky. "Now, clerics of Tyr!"

Even as his voice rang out, inky forms swirled out of the night. As one, the assembled clerics began their resonant chanting. A pale blue nimbus sprang into existence across the circular opening above the temple. Several of the shadow fiends approached the nimbus and instantly burst into flame as they breached the holy light. But several of the creatures were too fast and had already slipped through.

These swooped down, landing lightly on three-toed claws. The crimson outlines of the magical fiends burned Tarl's vision. He swung his warhammer, its metal slicing through one of the creatures. The creature, ripped to shreds, quickly evaporated.

Sister Corenna cried out as one of the fiends slashed at her back. Its head burst apart a moment later, crushed by Anton's hammer.

A third fiend lifted Brother Dameron bodily and hurled him through the air. The rotund cleric struck a marble column. He slumped to the floor and did not rise again.

The fiend whirled, its dark wings beating in agitation. Suddenly a hammer flashed through the air, ripping through the shadow fiend. It hissed in pain, then melted into thin air.

Sister Corenna slumped back to the floor. The hand that had thrown the hammer was drenched in blood, but her face bore a look of grim satisfaction.

"Louder, clerics of Tyr!" Tarl yelled as the shadow fiends fought the protective blue nimbus with their dark magic. The fiends surged forward as the holy light flickered. Then Tarl added his deep baritone to the combined voices of his brethren. The nimbus glowed with renewed energy, and a half-dozen more shadow fiends shrieked as they were consumed by brilliant flame.

So it went for the remainder of the long, dark night.

At times the voices of the clerics grew hoarse, their chanting faltered, and the shadow fiends nearly penetrated through the temple's protective barrier. But time and time again, Tarl's voice rang out above the others, and in his example the other clerics found a reservoir of strength in their hearts. They chanted on.

Then came the first golden rays of dawn.

The shadow fiends writhed in torment as the light of the sun transfixed them, piercing them with its burning rays. They shrieked vile curses as their bodies dissipated, then their screams faded into a sigh on the wind. A golden radiance filled the temple. The morning light had banished the shadows of midnight.

The temple's clerics sank to the floor, exhausted. The tide of evil had been stemmed, and all knew it was due to Tarl's strength and bravery.

"It's good to have you back, Brother Tarl," Anton said gruffly, clapping a hand on Tarl's shoulder.

Tarl smiled despite himself. You were right, as always, Shal, he said inwardly, hoping that, somehow, she could hear him.

"Do not rejoice overmuch, clerics of Tyr!" a cracked voice called out, casting a pall of silence over the hall. The ancient priestess, Sister Sendara, hobbled into the room, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff.

"You have defeated a great evil this night, it is true," the priestess proclaimed. "But know that this battle was but the first drop of rain in the dark storm that is to sweep over us. Know this, and be ready!" With that the ancient priestess retreated back into her chamber.

A somber quiet filled the hall along with the morning sunlight.

The crescent moon had risen well above the treetops by the time Listle finally stepped into the light of the campfire.

Kern gazed at her silently, not knowing what to say. Or even what he felt. A bowl of Trooper's rabbit stew sat on the ground before him, untouched.

"I suppose I owe you all some sort of an explanation," the elf said, sitting gingerly on a log across from Kern. Her face looked tight and drawn.

"Perhaps," Trooper said quietly. The paladin's eyes glinted like blue glass. "But then, not all secrets are meant to be shared."

The elf took a deep breath. "I think this one has to be." She smiled crookedly, her expression wistful. "I wish I could tell you this was all just another one of my practical jokes, but…" Her words faltered.

Kern ran a frustrated hand through his tangled red hair. He couldn't hold back any longer. "Listle, what was that creature? And why was it hunting you? And what… what happened when I tried to help you up?" His questions trailed off into awkward silence.

"I guess you haven't ever heard the phrase, 'One thing at a time,' have you, Kern?" Listle said wryly. "But that's all right. I'll try to tell you everything."

With a deep breath, she began her story.

"Kern already knows how, ten years ago, I escaped from the tower of the wizard Sifahir. Believe me when I say that there has never been an elvish mage as black-hearted as he was." Listle could not suppress a shudder. "Three centuries ago, he was counselor to the Queen of Evermeet, the land of the silver elves far across the Trackless Sea. For a time Sifahir used his powers to help the Queen keep her islands safe from pirates and sea monsters. But gradually he found other, less benevolent uses for his magic.

"With his spells, Sifahir would torture confessions of treason out of innocent elves, and wreak magical destruction upon villages that couldn't pay his cruel taxes. As time went on, his schemes grew ever darker. He began to whisper wicked plans of conquest in the queen's ear and to warn her of treacherous plots against her life concocted, so he said, by her closest friends and loved ones. He advised that she execute them all. Finally the queen realized his true evil. However, since it's against elven nature to take a life-even one as evil as Sifahir's-she exiled him to a small, barren island north of Evermeet."

The fire sent shadows dancing across Listle's face. Kern leaned forward to catch her soft words.

"The island Sifahir was exiled to was little more than a collection of jagged rocks jutting up above the waves," the elf went on. "Despite his might, Sifahir was condemned to stay in that desolate place. The Queen of the silver elves is not without powerful enchantments herself, and she cast a geas upon him. Should he ever set foot off his island, he would perish. But if she thought this meant he would never be able to work evil in the world again, then the good Queen was wrong."

Listle shook her head sadly. "Sifahir raised a dark tower, and from it he spun a magical web, its tendrils reaching farther and farther with every passing year. He could never hope to leave the island, but with his evil web he was able to draw others to him. The unlucky would find their boats pulled off course to Sifahir's island, their vessels crashing to splinters on the rocky shore, stranding them. Then, as his power expanded, he discovered ways to create evil servants that could venture forth into the world to retrieve objects for him-books of arcane lore, objects of magical power, and even… other people."

She gazed at Kern. "That is what attacked me in the glen. One of Sifahir's servants. I… I never imagined one of his creatures could travel so far from his island prison."

She shook her head and went on. "With his web and his conjured minions, Sifahir captured and enslaved countless elves. The weaponsmith, Primul, was one of them, and the elven mages, Brookwine and Winebrook, were two more. Most of Sifahir's prisoners died in the course of his terrible experiments, but a few were kept alive to serve him."

"Like you, Listle?" Trooper asked gently.

She laughed then, but it was a rueful laugh, so unusual coming from the typically buoyant elf.

"No, Trooper," she said sorrowfully. "That wasn't the case with me. You see, I didn't come to the island." Anguish shone in her silver eyes. "The island was where I first came to be."

Realization struck Kern, cold and terrible. "He… he created you, didn't he?" He could barely speak the words. "Sifahir conjured you, just like he did the creature in the glen." He shook his head. "But that means you're… you're a…"

She nodded, trembling. "An illusion, Kern. I began my existence as an illusion, conjured by Sifahir's magic to guard his treasure chamber."

Kern worked his jaw silently. What could he possibly say?

"But an illusion is simply an image," Trooper said with a bushy-eyebrowed scowl. "Illusions are nothing more than figments of the imagination. They cannot think, or act of their own free will. Or play practical jokes."

"No," Listle agreed, "they can't." She shivered, drawing closer to the fire. "I have only vague recollections of the time when I was created. More like dreams, really. I remember existing in Sifahir's treasure chamber. I would appear if intruders ventured within and use the magic Sifahir had granted me to confront them. There was never any conscious thought in my actions."

Her voice grew even more quiet, her gaze intent. "But then… then something happened. What caused it to happen, I don't think I'll ever know. Perhaps it was simply the aura of magic that pervaded the treasure chamber, radiated by all the artifacts it contained. Whatever the cause, one day I realized that I had become conscious. I was fully aware of what I was-no, of who I was-and what I was doing.

"At first it was simply a curious, wonderful sensation. But as time went on, my sense of self grew stronger. I began to feel pity for the people I was forced to use my magic on, then grief. Finally, I too came to understand Sifahir's true nature and knew that I could serve him no longer. I decided to escape. It was the first independent decision I ever made."

She touched her ruby pendant, its light dormant now. "As the guardian of Sifahir's treasure, I knew each item, down to the least coin. This necklace was one of his most prized possessions. It was forged by gnome illusionists long ago and enhanced his magic greatly. But he did not understand all of its secrets. I sensed that it had the power to grant me… life." She swallowed hard. "As long as I wore the necklace, my body would be no different than a living elf is."

"So you took the necklace and escaped from the tower," Miltiades said solemnly.

She nodded. "It was easy. Sifahir had never expected one of his own illusions to betray him. Since I could will myself to become insubstantial and pass through walls, I managed to free some of the prisoners-Primul and a few others locked in the dungeons. We fled through the tower's gates. That was where I discovered Winebrook and Brookwine. Their bodies were sunk deeply into the stone archway, where for years they had been forced to use their magic to strengthen the iron gate. I was able to reach into the stone and pull them free."

Her eyes grew distant "I remember that day so clearly. Primul picked up the two old mages as if they were thin sticks. They were so pale, so brittle. I didn't see how they could survive. We dashed through the gates and to the sea. Then I realized we had no way to escape the island. But somehow, despite their weakness, Brookwine and Winebrook sent forth a call, and a half-dozen dolphins lifted their heads above the waves. We dove into the water, and the dolphins bore us away from the island. By that point, bolts of green lightning were shooting from the tower's turrets. Too late, Sifahir had discovered our escape."

Listle's shoulders sagged. "The dolphins dropped us on the shores of Evermeet, and ever since we've all been fleeing from Sifahir's minions. He means to recapture us, and he wants me most of all." She fidgeted with her necklace. "It has been over three years since the last attack. I had started to think that maybe he had lost us forever. But I know now that I was wrong. Sifahir will never rest until he's regained the necklace and exacted his revenge."

"What will happen to you?" Kern found himself asking, almost against his will.

Listle stared at the others. "I'll become an illusion once again."

A silence descended on the small clearing. Kern tried to sort out all Listle had told him. The elf had always been unpredictable, but this-this was unfathomable. A dozen emotions clashed in his heart. Sorrow that Listle had known such anguish. Anger at the evil mage that dogged her footsteps. Fear that the elf might vanish in a puff of smoke at any moment. But most of all, he felt a profound confusion. Only a short while ago, after she had kissed him, he had seen Listle in a whole new light. Feelings he had never imagined before had stirred in his heart. But now he didn't know what to feel. How could he love someone who wasn't even real?

Listle stood, her jaw set, with deep sorrow in her eyes. "I'm sorry I've lied to you all for so long. I… I can understand if you want me to leave." She started to gather her things.

"Listle, do not-" Miltiades began, but he was interrupted by two brilliant sparks of light floating into the clearing. Both were a shimmering aquamarine, though one spark was slightly more green than blue, and the other slightly more blue than green. Abruptly the sparks flashed, and in their place stood two ancient, sweet-faced elves.

"Brookwine! Winebrook!" Listle exclaimed.

Trooper raised a bushy eyebrow in surprise, casting a glance at Kern. Kern nodded, confirming the paladin's unspoken question. These were the two elven mages from Listle's story.

"Listle," Brookwine began in his tremulous voice, "we are so glad that we have-"

"— found you," Winebrook went on without pause. "Primul sent us to warn you that-"

"— one of Sifahir's minions has discovered your-"

"— whereabouts. You're in terrible-"

"— danger!" The two elves finished as one.

Listle sighed, reaching out and holding their fine-boned hands. "I know," she said glumly. "I was attacked a few hours ago. But that particular beast will trouble us no more, thanks to my friends here."

Quickly she relayed the tale of their encounter with Sifahir's illusionary minion. When she finished, the two wispy mages bowed deeply to the others.

"We are most grateful for-"

"— your slaying of the beast-"

"— that sought to deliver us into-"

"— Sifahir's hands once again."

The elves smiled their beguiling smiles, eyes glowing green-blue and blue green.

"Er, don't mention it," Trooper said, seeming at a loss as he turned his gaze from one mage to the other.

"Can you stay a while?" Listle asked the two ancient mages hopefully, but Brookwine and Winebrook shook their heads.

"I'm afraid we dare not-"

"— linger, dear Listle. We must return to-"

"— inform Primul of this development," they said in their fluid manner.

"You know how the green elf thinks us-"

"— to be flighty, and how angry he-"

"— gets when we dilly-"

"— dally."

Listle laughed despite her recent ordeal. Seeing her old friends always lifted her heart, no matter the circumstances. "Take care, you two," she whispered, hugging them tightly. "And don't let Primul bully you." In a wink the mages vanished, and two glowing sparks fluttered out of the clearing.

Listle fell silent then. Her worst fears had been realized. Her secret had been revealed. She knew the others would never regard her the same way again, especially Kern.

Trooper spoke, as if sensing her thoughts. "Well, let's have no more talk of leaving tonight," he said testily. "It's too late for such serious matters, and this old man needs his sleep." With that he rolled himself in his blanket and almost instantly began snoring.

Listle saw Kern gazing at her, the expression in his eyes impossible to read. She took a hesitant step toward him, wishing he would say something… anything. For a moment she thought he was going to, but then he too turned away and, climbing into his bedroll, shut his eyes tightly.

Listle felt a preternatural chill behind her. She looked up to see Miltiades. The paladin seemed to be regarding her with his empty eyes.

"It is a burden, being so different, is it not?" he said softly in his eerie voice.

"Yes," she whispered. "It is."

"You must not despair, Listle Onopordum," he said, a stern note in his usually gentle voice. "You fought hard to have the chance to live. Do not throw it away, for any reason."

With that the skeletal knight stepped away into the shadows, leaving her feeling completely and utterly alone.

The frigid wind whipped through Daile's hair as her magic carpet sped through the air high above the Dragon-spine Mountains. She knew she should stop and make camp. It was reckless to fly so fast in the darkness. Several times she had narrowly avoided pinnacles of rock looming before her or the outstretched branches of tall trees. But still she gripped the carpet's tassels, guiding it onward. She had barely paused in her journey since leaving the Valley of the Falls two days ago. Not that it had been easy to leave. No, she thought ruefully. Leaving had been the hardest thing she had ever done.

Her mind drifted back to that cold, gray day. She had buried Ren in a cairn of stones next to Ciela, below the glittering, frozen cathedral of the waterfall. After she had placed the last rock on the cairn, she simply sat there and stared at the motionless water, not knowing what to do. She had never felt so utterly alone.

In her gloom, she almost hadn't seen see the trio of orcs that crept into the clearing behind her. But at the last moment, she'd caught a reflection of the pig-snouted creatures in the glassy surface of the waterfall. She'd whirled around as the orcs bared their yellowed tusks and drew their rusted short swords. Then the bloodthirsty monsters had charged.

In the space of a heartbeat, Daile had raised her bow, and, with icy calm, loosed three arrows in rapid succession. The orcs had dropped in their tracks, looks of dull-witted astonishment on their warty faces, each with a red-feathered arrow protruding from its throat.

Daile had lowered her bow, feeling a strange warmth surging through her blood. It was as if the attack had broken her from the grip of a spell. For the next three days she'd prowled the valley from end to end, from river to ridge top, searching. Every creature of evil she found had fallen prey to her arrows. Orcs, kobolds, even trolls were her quarry. All that filled her mind was the hunt. She had stalked the forest, as if it were her natural home, and she a hunter born to the wild.

Finally there had been no more monsters to slay.

Those few that might have remained had heard of her deadly bow and fled. Daile had returned to the small stone keep as a great weariness came over her. She'd slept for a day and a night, and when she woke, it was again as if waking from a spell. What had happened to her? She had almost… lost herself to the wilds. How much longer could it have gone on before she became the same as any beast?

She'd shuddered, vowing never to lose control of herself like that again.

Suddenly thoughts of Kern and the others had come crashing down on her; she had tarried too long. With one last glance at the valley that had been her home, she had leaped on the magic carpet and soared into the sky…

Finally Daile realized she could keep her eyes open no longer. She had to stop and rest for just a few hours, until the dawn. Then she would be on her way again. She pulled on the golden tassels, and the carpet began to descend.

A glimmer of light caught her eye.

It quickly vanished, but a moment later she saw it again. A small, warm spark dancing in a dark grove of trees. Someone was down there!

Instantly, all thoughts of sleep vanished from Daile's mind. She jerked hard on the tassels, and the carpet sped toward the firelight.

As she drew closer, she could make out two figures in the flickering circle. Quickly, she dug in her pack and pulled out the cylindrical scrying glass that had been her father's. When she lifted it to her eyes, her heart leaped in her chest. Evaine and Gamaliel! The long-haired sorceress lay near the fire, her eyes closed in sleep, while the tawny cat sat on his haunches, keeping watch. Daile grinned exultantly. She started to lower the scrying glass, then suddenly halted.

A third figure had drifted into the clearing.

It was a thing of shadows. All she could make out were sharp, moon-bright teeth and countless twiglike fingers. She drew in a sharp breath. Whatever it was, it was heading straight for Evaine. The great cat was staring into the night, seemingly oblivious to the intruder.

"Come on, Gamaliel," Daile whispered.

But the cat did not stir as the shadow creature reached its long arms toward Evaine. Even as Daile watched through the scrying glass, the creature's spindly fingers touched the sorceress's brow. Evaine shuddered in her sleep. Gamaliel turned his head, as if sensing something was wrong, but it was clear that for some reason he could not see the creature.

Daile knew she had to act. As the carpet sailed toward the clearing, she hastily set down the scrying glass and reached for her bow, but by the time she looked up, the shadow creature was gone!

She shook her head. How could the thing have disappeared so suddenly? She lifted the scrying glass again to be sure.

No, the shadow creature still cradled Evaine's head in its hands, baring fangs in a milk-white grin.

Daile realized the truth: the scrying glass must be enchanted. That was why she could see the shadow creature. Gamaliel was not to blame. It was up to her to save Evaine.

Hastily she set the scrying glass aside and raised her bow. "If there is a way to wound a shadow, bow, show me what it is," she whispered fiercely.

The magical weapon quivered in her hands, the two ioun stones set into its wood humming brightly. Suddenly scarlet flames crackled along the arrow. The crimson bolt streaked through the air. It passed a scant foot above Evaine's sleeping form-and stopped in midair.

The great cat leaped to his feet at this strange sight.

"Gamaliel, Evaine is being attacked!" Daile shouted. Even as her words rang out, scarlet tongues of fire radiated from the arrow, outlining a writhing form. The shadow creature. With the aid of the magical fire, Daile and Gamaliel could see the thing clearly. It had lifted its twig-fingers from Evaine and was scrabbling at the arrow protruding from its chest. Gamaliel lunged toward the thing, fangs bared. He snarled and leaped back as crimson fire seared his muzzle. The shadow creature grabbed at the cat with its branchlike arms, ready to sink its needle fangs into Gamaliel's flesh.

"One more time, bow," Daile whispered. Another blazing arrow plunged into the shadow monster. With a cry, the creature released Gamaliel and backed away, clawing at the arrow sunk into its eyeless face. Slowly, it lowered to the ground. The scarlet flames dimmed and vanished. Daile found that she could see the creature now, a motionless pool of shadow on the ground.

Daile was about to call out to Gamaliel when the carpet lurched violently.

The ranger swore. She hadn't been paying attention! There was a loud noise as the carpet snagged a tree branch, then Daile felt herself falling. Fortunately, a thick bed of pine needles cushioned her impact. Gamaliel helped her to her feet, and as he did so, she realized he had metamorphosed into his human shape. He regarded her curiously. Scorch marks covered his arms where the magical flame from her arrows had burned him.

"Gamaliel, your wounds-"

He waved her words aside. "It is nothing," he said gruffly. "Your arrows saved us. Come, we must see to Evaine."

The sorceress was already awake, though it was clear she was weak and dizzy. Whatever the creature was, it had obviously drained her with its deadly touch.

"I don't know how or why you found us, Daile," she said with a faint smile. "But your timing is impeccable."

Stiffly, she knelt to examine the pile of dark tatters, all that remained of the creature. "I've heard of beings that feed upon their victims' dreams." Evaine sighed wearily. "This explains why I've felt so hollow and dispirited these last days."

"And I never suspected anything," Gamaliel said quietly. There was anger in his voice, as well as anguish.

"Don't you dare be so foolish as to blame yourself, Gam," Evaine said sternly. "There was no way you could have known." She turned her gaze toward the ranger. "You picked a good night to find us, Daile. For six nights I've been growing weaker and weaker. Tonight would have been the seventh. After tonight, I might have become one of those creatures myself."

Daile stared in horror at the sorceress. There was nothing she could say. Evaine reached out and gripped her hand.

"Thank you," the sorceress said.

They spent the remainder of the night close to the fire, each telling what had befallen them since they had parted company at Evaine's dwelling. The sorceress brewed a pot of herbal tea that would help restore her strength and offered a cup to the ranger. Daile sipped the fragrant liquid, gathering her thoughts. She told the tale of their journey to the ruins of the red tower, describing how Kern had fought the osyluth and gained the Hammer of Tyr. She dreaded having to tell the story of her father's death once again, of having to relive that terrible moment Evaine had been one of Ren's best friends; she deserved to know. Her brown eyes distant, Daile began to describe Ren's fatal battle with the knight-fiend. When she finished, she was surprised to realize that, somehow, it hadn't been quite as painful reliving the memory this time.

"I will miss him," Evaine said with a deep sigh. "But Faerun is a better place because of Ren o' the Blade, and a brighter place. His life had meaning, great meaning. It was all he would have wished. Don't ever forget that, Daile."

Daile knew that she would not.

Evaine was told all about the young archer's adventures, including the tale of Sirana's treachery and how the wild mage was in truth a half-fiend, the daughter of the Red Wizard Marcus.

"She's in league with the pool of twilight, Evaine. That's what the others were coming to warn you about."

The sky had steadily brightened as they spoke, and now the ruddy orb of the sun lifted itself above the snowcapped heights. As the first rays filtered their way into the clearing, the remains of the dreamstalker began to smoke and bubble, evaporating before their eyes. In moments, there was no trace of the shadow creature left.

They broke camp in the morning light. Evaine was still weak, her cheeks hollow and sunken, but now that the nightly attacks had ended, she thought she would quickly regain strength.

The first thing to do was to locate Kern and the others. How to go about it was a dilemma. It was possible that Evaine could cast one of her search spells, but that would have to be a last resort. The sorceress needed to save her spell components-and her energy-to find the pool of twilight.

"I could have used the magic carpet to scout the area," Daile said, "but…"

She didn't need to say the obvious. The tattered remains of the carpet were tangled in the branches of a nearby tree twenty feet above the ground. The magic carpet would fly no more.

Gamaliel turned to Daile. "Perhaps there is another way you might scout above the trees." There was a peculiar intensity in the barbarian's green-gold eyes.

"How?" Daile asked wryly. "Am I supposed to flap my arms and fly into the air?"

"Perhaps I mean just that, ranger."

Daile frowned. What was Gamaliel talking about?

"Gamaliel," Evaine said seriously. "Are you certain this is wise?"

The barbarian shrugged. "She must discover the gift someday, Evaine. Why not now, when it can be of use?"

Evaine looked skeptical, but did not disagree.

Daile regarded them both in bewilderment. "What are you talking about?"

Gamaliel reached out and took her hand. "Come. I'll show you."

He led her into the woods. Daile wondered why Evaine did not follow. Perhaps the sorceress needed to rest, she thought.

Gamaliel stopped when they reached the edge of a steep precipice. Rugged, pristine wilderness stretched as far as Daile could see, forested ridges gilded by the morning light. The sight tugged at her heart. It was a feeling she had experienced before, hunting with her father or stalking orcs in the Valley of the Falls, a desire to make herself one with the forest, the mountains, and the sky.

"It is the wild gift," Gamaliel stated in answer to her thoughts.

"I don't understand," Daile said, shaking her head.

"I have sensed it in you," the barbarian explained in his rich voice. "You move through the forest as if it is your home. You do not try to master it. Rather, you become part of it, sensing its sights and scents as if it is second nature for you." He laid both his strong hands on her shoulders. "The wild gift runs in your blood, Daile. Do you choose to accept it?"

The barbarian's words sent a strange thrill through her. She wasn't at all certain what Gamaliel was talking about, but somehow she knew he spoke the truth. The wind blew his golden hair from his square, chiseled face.

"Yes," she whispered before she really knew what she was saying. The wilderness did call to her.

Gamaliel nodded, a pleased look in his eyes.

"Close your eyes," he said, leading her closer to the edge of the cliff. "I will help you."

She did as he instructed.

"Can you hear the wind?" he murmured softly.

"Yes," she whispered. She could hear the voice of the morning breeze, singing through the ghost-pale aspen frees.

"Listen to its music," Gamaliel instructed. "Let it blow over you, and through you. Now breathe. Breathe deeply. What do you smell?"

"The forest," Daile answered. Though her eyes were shut, she felt acutely aware of everything around her. "I can smell the sun warming the granite of the cliff. There's a wolverine's den nearby, and a group of white-tail deer even closer. And I smell snowcress growing beside a frozen spring not far behind us."

Gamaliel nodded in satisfaction. "Good, Daile. Now, let yourself be part of all that you sense. Let the wind lift you from your body. Let it shape you into something new. Something wondrous."

At first it was improbable. Daile felt so human, so rooted to the ground. But gradually she began to lighten, to feel as if the morning wind was flowing through her. And suddenly she felt… different indeed.

"That's it, Daile!" Gamaliel whispered intently. "Let the wilderness influence you. There is something within you, trying to break out to answer the call. Let yourself be free."

Yes, be free, Daile said to herself. Exultation washed through her. The sounds and scents of the woodlands were overpowering, intoxicating. She felt as if she was falling through air.

"Open your eyes, Daile Redfletching!"

Gamaliel's shout sounded oddly distant. Daile opened her eyes. Wonder filled her.

She was flying.

She stretched her wings, feeling the air rush over her feathers. She laughed for joy, and the sound came out as the high, piercing cry of a hawk. She beat her wings, soaring on an updraft, and wheeled high in the sky. She saw Gamaliel below her, shading his eyes with a hand as he grinned up at her. Then in a flash the barbarian was gone, and the tawny great cat was bounding through the forest.

She followed him, marveling at the way her wings guided her on the swirling currents of air. Her sharp eyes caught glimpses of Gamaliel loping gracefully among the trees below, and she pumped her wings, easily keeping pace with him.

A silver lake flashed beneath her, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of a red-gold hawk with red bands on the tips of its wings. It was only after a moment that she realized it was a reflection of herself. Rainbow-sided trout leaped in the cold water. She had the urge to swoop down and snatch one in her outstretched talons. But Gamaliel's snarl caught her attention. She flew after him.

Her vision amazed her. She could see a mouse cowering under a pile of dead leaves and the gossamer strands of a spider's web glistening in a tree a league away. She wheeled gracefully in the azure sky. In moments she saw them. Four travelers just breaking camp in a forested bowl a few leagues to the south.

There was Kern, saddling his horse, and Listle and Miltiades packing their gear. There was another with them, an old man Daile did not recognize, but by the scales of justice engraved on the hilt of his sword, she knew him to be a venerable paladin.

She cried out, letting Gamaliel know that she had seen them. The cat bounded back toward camp, and Daile followed. Moments later she swooped down and perched on a branch near Evaine. She began to explain that she had seen Kern.

The sorceress regarded her curiously. "I can't understand hawk speech very well, Daile," Evaine said dryly. "Could you try Common, please?"

Suddenly the branch beneath Daile buckled. She fell to the ground with a thump.

"It would probably be better if you landed on the ground next time before transforming back into human form," Gamaliel noted as he shifted into his barbarian shape and stepped into the clearing.

Daile nodded in agreement as she stood, rubbing her sore backside. Quickly she relayed to Evaine what she had seen, and they hastily broke camp. If they marched swiftly, they might intercept their friends by noon.

Once they were on their way, her head reeled. Had it not been for Gamaliel's strong grip on her arm, Daile might have tripped and fallen as the full implications of what happened washed over her.

"Gamaliel," she began hesitantly, "how… how did I do that?"

"As I told you," he said gravely, "it is the wild gift, a legacy from Ciela, your druidess mother. She had the gift, as many druids do, though I do not think it ran so strongly in her blood as yours." Gamaliel smiled, then his face grew solemn. "It is a remarkable talent, Daile. But you must take care. Sometimes… sometimes those whose blood sings with the wild gift can become lost in it. The call of the wilderness becomes so overpowering, it drowns out all other thoughts and desires."

Daile shivered. She thought she knew what he meant.

"Always remember, Daile, that when you become a hawk, you must lock a part of yourself away in a corner of your mind, a part that remembers what it is to be a human."

"What would happen if I didn't?" she asked.

"Then you would forget you were once a woman, and you would become a hawk forever."

With that, Gamaliel moved swiftly through the trees after Evaine. Daile hesitated a moment and followed, thinking of the way her hunt for creatures of evil had nearly consumed her in the Valley of the Falls. For those three days after burying Ren, she had thought of nothing but the hunt, as if she were an animal. She had almost lost herself, she knew now.

She shivered. "I will never forget that I am human," she whispered fiercely. "Never again." She hurried to catch up with the sorceress and barbarian.

Anton stood atop the temple of Tyr's highest rampart in the steely light of predawn, gazing into the distance. He was watching. And waiting.

Three hours earlier, Sister Sendara had woken him in the deep of night.

"This is the day our fate will be decided," the ancient priestess had whispered in the chilly darkness.

At those words, dread had clutched Anton's heart, but he had pushed the feeling aside. Quickly, he had donned his robe and hurried into the temple's main hall, striking a bronze gong to wake the other clerics. In the dark before the dawn, he told his brothers and sisters of Sendara's warning. In the hours since, the clerics of Tyr had done what they could to ready themselves and the temple for the coming onslaught, whatever form it might take.

As Anton watched, the baleful eye of the sun heaved itself above the frozen plains, spilling its bloody light across the city. Gazing into the west, he saw a dark stain spreading across the horizon. Even as he watched, the thing grew larger, a vast, undulating sea approaching the city's walls. His sharp eyes could just make out the twisted forms that shambled in the fore of the black tide.

"Zombies," Anton murmured. "An army of zombies."

He did not hesitate. He lifted a polished, silver-tipped ox horn that hung from a strap about his neck and sounded a long, clear note. The alarm rang out across the city.

As it did, the scene erupted in chaos.

Folk streamed into the streets. Word of the approaching army of doom had spread like wildfire. Now people shoved past each other in an effort to flee the city. Those who fell in the crush of humanity were trampled and did not get up. In years past, the valiant folk of Phlan would have armed themselves for battle. Today they poured out of the city's western gate and fled into the countryside. Only a few remained behind, and these were mostly thieves and looters. By the time the zombies neared the Death Gates, the city was virtually empty.

The massive, ironbound Death Gates had been called by many names in the past-Fire Dragon Gates, Ogre's Bane Gates, Giant's Doom Gates. But finally they had simply come to be called the Death Gates, for again and again armies of evil had broken and perished against them.

But not this time. Rusted and worm-eaten, the Death Gates had decayed along with the rest of the city, and no one had bothered to repair them. As the throng of zombies surged forward, the huge gates groaned. More zombies pressed against them, and more, trampling each other to pulp as they pushed at the portal.

Finally, the Death Gates exploded in a spray of rotting timber. Zombies streamed into the abandoned city. Those thieves who had chosen to linger behind and fill their pockets soon regretted their decision as they were torn limb from limb. In minutes all of Phlan was awash with zombies. Only one bastion of resistance remained, and it was upon this that the army of undead finally converged.

The temple of Tyr.

As he watched the zombie horde approach, Anton found himself wondering for the hundredth time how the Hammerseeker and his companions fared. But there was no way to know. Sendara's runestones had revealed nothing. They could only hope that Kern was even now on his way back to the city. It was their only chance. If the temple fell before the hammer was returned, Phlan would be wiped off the face of Toril forever.

"Help us, Tyr." Anton muttered a prayer. "Help us to hold on."

Six other clerics ascended the walls to stand beside Anton. Below, Tarl led a dozen more clerics in the chants that lent magical strength to the gray stone walls and the huge iron gates. At last the horde of undead reached the temple, filling the air with their foul reek.

Anton gazed at the attackers in horror. He had seen corpses raised from the grave before, and though the sight had been unpleasant, it was nothing compared to the throng of abominations he saw before him now.

These zombies were mockeries of living beings, fused from the disparate pieces of myriad creatures as if they had been pasted together by a madman. A snarling elf possessing arms that ended, not in hands, but in the snapping heads of vipers. An undead lion with the rotting upper bodies of three bow-wielding halflings protruding from its back. A gigantic spider, its head that of a beautiful, pale-skinned woman, but its eyes the mindless, many-faceted orbs of an insect. And still more and worse that made Anton sick even to look.

"In the name of Tyr, return to the graves that spawned you, creatures of evil!" Anton boomed, raising his arms above his head. The six clerics flanking him followed suit. Shimmering blue light glowed around their fingertips.

A score of zombies in the lead abruptly collapsed into heaps of dust, destroyed by the holy power of Tyr, but more zombie abominations lurched forward to take the place of those that had been eliminated.

"Come, clerics of Tyr!" a goblin fused to the back of a decomposing wolf cackled with a dirty grin. "Come, join us."

"Why do you resist?" a mold-covered woman with scorpion tails for hair called in a syrupy voice. "If you fight us, you will perish, and then your bodies will be fused to ours. Whether you resist or not, inevitably you will join us."

A cacophony rose from the surging throng. "Join us! Joined to us! Join us!"

Anton gagged in revulsion. "Let Tyr's power strengthen you!" he called to the clerics beside him. All raised their arms once more, calling down the holy wrath of their god. Again, an entire rank of zombies exploded into clouds of choking dust.

Still more shambled forward, jeering at the clerics of Tyr.

Again, Anton and the six clerics beside him summoned Tyr's power to destroy the slavering undead. And still again. One of the clerics collapsed in exhaustion, but the others chanted on, sending their prayers to Tyr. Fifty more undead burst into foul-smelling dust before another two clerics crumpled into unconsciousness, utterly drained from the effort of channeling so much magical energy.

In the end Anton alone stood upon the rampart to call on Tyr's power. It was a measure of his willpower that a dozen more zombies exploded into yellow splinters.

Anton felt his knees give way. He slumped to the battlement, gasping for breath. He and his comrades had destroyed fully ten score zombies. But more had appeared to take their places, and the horde stretched through the city's streets as far as the eye could see, out the Death Gates and to the distant horizon, a great, writhing, fearsome stain upon the land.

"Strengthen the gates!" he shouted down hoarsely.

Tarl was ready. "Tyr, grant us the power of your protection!" the white-haired cleric called out in a ringing voice.

A dozen clerics chanted fervent prayers. Suddenly, massive columns of jagged stone began to push up out of the ground before the gates, growing like gigantic trees. In moments, a dozen columns towered in front of the gates, bolstering the portals. As the first zombies approached, spikes shot out of the columns like huge, stony thorns, impaling the undead creatures. The zombies writhed on the spikes, shredding their own rotting flesh with their struggles. Blue lightning crackled around their bodies, burning them to cinders.

More zombies lurched mindlessly toward the gates. They, too, were impaled by the huge stone thorns and consumed by holy fire. Still more followed suit.

The clerics chanted on. As one tired, slumping to his knees, another stepped forward to take his or her place. Through it all, Tarl's voice never faltered.

The zombies continued their mindless advance, letting out inhuman screams as the spikes rent their undead flesh and lightning coursed through their bodies, streaming out of their wounds and blankly staring eyes.

The clerics chanted on, their voices growing ragged.

Suddenly the mass of zombies parted before the gate. A huge fire giant strode through their ranks. His undead body was whole, but instead of eyes, in each socket was lodged the head of a dwarf. Screaming orders, the dual dwarf heads directed the lumbering body of the giant. The towering giant gripped two of the columns in its enormous hands.

A dozen spikes shot out, piercing the giant's hands. Holy magic crackled along the length of the monster's arms. Flesh sizzled and bubbled, filling the air with its stench. But the magic was not enough. The giant's arms tensed. The two columns shattered in a spray of stone, clearing a space before the gate. The giant reached out, gripping the top of the iron portal.

Tarl, hearing the collapse, cried, "Louder, clerics of Tyr!" but this time their chants were to no avail.

The fire giant grunted; the dual dwarf heads shrieked orders. The monster's muscles bulged until they seemed ready to burst. Suddenly the sound of rending metal shattered the air. Shards of iron flew in all directions. The gates were sundered.

The clerics of Tyr stared in horror as the fire giant stepped through, the dwarf heads in its eye sockets laughing evilly.

Even then, Tarl Desanea stood strong.

He could see the magically animated zombie clearly. In one swift move, he hurled his warhammer. It spun through the air and struck the giant directly between its hideous dwarf-eyes. The fire giant's head exploded in a spray of rotting meat. It tottered and fell backward, crushing dozens of zombies to pulp beneath its bulk.

"Retreat to the temple!" Tarl shouted.

Hastily the clerics retreated, hauling Anton and the others who had collapsed back with them.

"What of you, Brother Tarl?" Sister Sendara called out when it became clear that Tarl did not intend to budge from the twisted wreckage of the gates.

"My place is here," the white-haired cleric said fiercely.

The old priestess only nodded, understanding in her dark eyes. She dashed into the temple with the others.

"Hurry, Kern," Tarl whispered softly, hoping somehow, somewhere, his son could hear him. "Wherever you are, you must hurry."

As the zombies rushed forward, jabbering with wicked glee, Tarl held up a single hand.

"By Tyr, none shall pass!"

Suddenly a shining wall of transparent blue fire appeared, sealing the gaping breach in the temple's wall. The zombies recoiled from it. They could not pass through the holy light. Tarl clenched his jaw, concentrating. Despite the cold, sweat beaded on his furrowed brow, rolling in rivulets down his face. He could feel Tyr's strength flowing through him like liquid fire. A strange elation began to fill him; a fierce grin spread across his face. His days of self-pity and mourning were gone. All that mattered was his belief in Tyr and in justice.

By all the gods of light, Shal, Tarl shouted inwardly, I will not give up! Somehow, I will hold on!

Zombies shrieked in rage as by the dozens they tried to pass through the gates and perished. The magical barrier did not waver. Tarl's faith sustained him against their onslaught But gradually, the fire in his blood burned hotter and hotter.

Inside the temple's portico, Anton staggered weakly to his feet. He gazed between the marble columns. Awe filled him at what he saw.

"How long… how long do you think he can hold the wall?" he asked in hoarse amazement.

"Until the magic consumes him," Sister Sendara answered sharply, "and he dies."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, paladin," Sirana's voice leered as Kern raised the Hammer of Tyr.

He hesitated.

Sirana's wings fluttered. She waved her silvery staff, and Kern's friends danced in the air above the pool like puppets on strings. Daile was thrashing like a caged animal, while Trooper muttered a stream of curses. Miltiades and Gamaliel were having no better luck than the venerable paladin. The magical trap was too strong, even for those two most powerful warriors. Unable to use their hands, neither Evaine nor Listle could cast any spell. But the invisible bonds did not prevent Listle from tossing a few choice insults down at Sirana. The half-fiend ignored the elf's imaginative taunts.

"Strike me with that precious hammer of yours, Kern, and you're going to ruin this useful staff as well. If you destroy the Staff of Twilight your beloved friends will plunge into my pool."

The steely waters sucked and gurgled hungrily about the rock in the pool's center.

"And when they do, paladin, they'll be fused with zombie corpses that wait in the pool's depths, ready to help your friends turn into creatures of darkness." Sirana raised her gnarled arms exultantly. "Now that would be a sight worth seeing. The lovely sorceress Evaine, sprouting from the back of a decomposing troll, recruited into my zombie army!" Sirana's eyes flashed. "Or perhaps you'd rather see what creatures I have ready to burrow into the flesh of the pretty little elf…"

She flicked the staff, and Listle screamed as she dropped a few inches, dangling closer to the perilous surface of the pool.

With a growl, Kern lowered the Hammer of Tyr.

"There is one way you can save your precious friends," Sirana's all-pervasive voice cooed. "Except for the one you call Miltiades, that vile metal can of moldering bones. There will be no saving that… that heinous defiler of my father's tower. I plan to grind that wretched skeleton to dust!" Unseen magical hands shook Miltiades violently. His skeletal body rattled inside his armor, though his ever-stoic expression did not waver. "However, I will free the others-even the treacherous sorceress, Evaine-if you will do just one tiny thing. Drop the Hammer of Tyr into the pool."

Kern scowled, gritting his teeth. He clenched the holy relic tightly. It was his destiny to return the hammer to Phlan. He couldn't simply cast it into the pool. Yet if he did not, it looked as if his friends would die. Slowly, he extended the hammer out over the pool's edge.

"Kern, don't!" Listle managed to cry out. Invisible bonds squeezed the elf brutally, silencing her.

"Do it, paladin!"

Kern clenched his jaw, loosening his grip…

Thunder split the air.

Jagged chunks of stone crashed to the cavern's floor as a hole burst open in the ceiling above. Something crashed through with a deafening noise.

A vast black dragon.

Kern froze in astonishment, realizing it was the beast Trooper had called Dusk.

The dragon circled menacingly.

"How have you forced me to return here, sorceress?" the dragon hissed.

The half-fiend laughed shrilly. "Just because you are guardian of the pool no longer-and I am guardian in your place-does not mean your pact with the pool is broken. When you accepted the power I granted you, you also accepted shackles that bind you to me. You cannot ignore my call, Dusk!"

"This cannot be!" the dragon shrieked. Brilliant silver sparks danced in his one good eye. "I was on the verge of sending a thousand evil dragons against the cities of the Moonsea. The dragon-rage was about to begin!"

Kern gasped as the beast whirled dangerously close to his friends. They bobbed up and down in the dragon's wake, like leaves buffeted by the wind.

"Your petty dragon-rage means nothing to me," Sirana's voice snapped. "I have need of you here. These vile creatures intend to destroy the pool of twilight. Without its magic, you wouldn't have the power of a garden snake, Dusk. Now, obey my command. Kill these intruders for me." She pointed the staff directly at Kern. "And start with this puppy-paladin."

"I am not your slave," the dragon bellowed. His vast wings propelled his sinuous body toward the cavern's ceiling.

"As long as I am guardian of the pool, you must obey me, Dusk!"

The dragon threw his head back, trumpeting his fury. "Then you will die, sorceress, and command me no more!"

Dusk barked a magical word. Suddenly a globe of impenetrable darkness sprang into being around the rock Sirana stood upon. Folding his wings back against his scaly body, the dragon dove toward the inky sphere.

At the same time, brilliant silver-gray streaks of magic from Sirana's staff shattered the globe of darkness. Dusk accelerated his descent, extending his sicklelike claws.

Sirana waved a hand frantically, and a shimmering haze appeared around her an instant before the dragon struck.

His blow glanced off the magical shield in a spray of sparks. With a bellow, he winged back toward the cavern's ceiling. Sirana smiled smugly, but the force of the dragon's blow had managed to knock her off balance. She teetered on the edge of the rock, arms flailing. Then she tumbled backward into the pool. The Staff of Twilight flew from her hand.

Kern watched in horror as the staff tumbled and rolled. It stopped less than a handspan from the edge.

Daile gasped. "We're sinking!" the ranger shouted.

Kern looked up in horror. Sure enough, his six friends were all gradually descending toward the pool's surface.

"Can't one of you blasted spellcasters do something?" Trooper snapped. "I've already had my bath this year!"

Both Evaine and Listle were powerless. Kern swore. Somehow he had to get that staff.

The waters of the pool frothed angrily. Something began to rise out of the depths, something huge. Gray foam ran from its sides as it lifted higher and higher, reaching toward the cavern's heights.

Sirana.

The gigantic, misshapen form of the half-fiend sorceress stood a full fifty feet high. Twilight-colored specks danced beneath her skin like stars gone mad. She reached out colossal arms.

"Fight me now, wyrm!"

The dragon screamed and once again plummeted toward her. The companions could only watch in dread fascination as the two titans grappled with each other. They had their own troubles. Inch by inch, they continued to be lowered toward the surface of the pool.

Dusk's claws raked Sirana's body, and searing magic crackled through the dragon. The reek of burned flesh filled the cavern. Dusk ignored the pain. The dragon's snapping jaws closed on Sirana's throat. At the same moment, a dozen spikes of brilliant magic punched through Dusk's body like white-hot spears. Neither monster dared to loose its hold on the other as they began to sink.

Locked in a fatal embrace, dragon and gigantic sorceress disappeared into the pool of twilight.

The torpid waters closed over them with a gurgling sound, silencing their inhuman screams. A ripple spread across the pool's surface. Then all was still.

Kern shook his head in amazement. Evil really does destroy itself, he thought.

Now, to free his friends, who hovered only a few inches above the surface of the pool. Quickly, he shed his armor and stood on the edge of the basin.

"Are you insane, lad?" Trooper growled.

"Maybe," Kern said with a grin. "But there's only one way to find out."

Ignoring the shouts of protest from his friends, he dove into the pool.

The thick water closed about him, oily against his skin. He felt the pool's magic swirl around him, trying to penetrate his flesh, to absorb his essence into its own.

Suddenly, Kern was buoyed to the pool's surface by a mass of sticky blue cobwebs. His unmagic did protect him! He began swimming for the spur of rock in the pool's center. In truth, it was more like dragging himself through molasses than swimming. After several minutes of laborious effort, he made it to the rock. He pulled himself out of the pool, shaking off as many of the blue cobwebs as he could. Then, carefully, he picked up the Staff of Twilight

He realized then that he had absolutely no idea what to do with it.

"Er, does any one know how to work one of these things?" he asked sheepishly.

"I don't really think we have time for lessons for beginners," Trooper commented acidly. He and the others were no more than a handspan above the silvery waters.

"You can do it, Kern," Evaine said calmly. "I'll help you."

He nodded jerkily.

"Now, grip the staff tightly and concentrate on me," the sorceress instructed. "Close your eyes and envision a thread running from my waist right to the staff. Now, begin reeling it in."

"Like a fishing rod?" he asked tentatively.

"Exactly."

Kern tried to do as she advised. His heart pounded in his chest. He knew he didn't have much time. He clenched his eyes tightly, concentrating…

Something bumped into him. He windmilled his arms wildly to keep from falling off the rock. He opened his eyes to see Evaine standing near him at the edge of the pool.

"A little shaky, Kern, but not bad," she said with a smile. "However, why don't you let me handle the others?"

He relinquished the staff only too gladly.

Minutes later, transported by Evaine and the Staff of Twilight, the adventurers stood together on solid ground. Kern had managed to scrape off most of the cobweb residue, but putting his armor back on was a sticky business.

"It is time to cast your spell, Evaine," Miltiades said gravely. "You must destroy the pool."

The sorceress was already preparing her incantation. She lit a fire in her small copper brazier, sprinkling a handful of dried herbs and unusual powders over the flame. Multicolored sparks crackled into the air. She sat cross-legged before the brazier, drawing out an oval crystal. She set it carefully in the fire's center. Immediately the gem began to pulsate in rhythm with the flickering flames.

"I'm not certain how long this will take," Evaine explained to the others. "I've never encountered a pool quite like this one before. The other pools I've destroyed have all been either purely dark or light in nature." As she talked, the sorceress deftly twisted her long hair into a knot to keep it out of the fire. "But this pool is different. Its essence is-" she struggled for the right words-" primal… chaotic. Its source lies in a magic far older than that of the other pools, a magic that comes from the time before light and dark were separate, and all the universe dwelt in twilight."

"Will you be able to destroy it, Evaine?" Kern asked solemnly.

She laughed grimly. "There's just one way to find out." She held her hands above the brazier and gem, chanting arcane words. Suddenly her voice fell silent, and her green eyes stared blankly into space. The sorceress sat as if hewn of stone.

"She will be like this for some time," Gamaliel said, standing protectively behind Evaine. "She cannot be disturbed. Should anything wake her from her spell before it is complete, the gem will break, and she will die." By the fierce gleam in his eye, it was clear the barbarian man did not intend to allow such a mishap to occur.

There was nothing to do then but wait. Kern sat down on a rock.

Daile sighed, wandering a short distance from the others. She felt strangely let down. She had vowed to avenge her father's death, but Sirana was dead, slain by the dragon, and the young ranger's arrows had played no part in it. The fire of revenge still smoldered in her heart. What of her oath now? she asked herself. How could she keep her word to her father? She rested her hands against the smooth wood of her magical bow.

"How much longer?" Trooper asked Gamaliel with a scowl. The older paladin paced fretfully.

The stone-faced barbarian shrugged. "I am no sorcerer. I cannot say."

"What is it, Trooper?" Listle asked in concern.

The old man shook his head. "I'm not certain. It's just that there's something about this place that bothers-"

A gurgling sound emanated from the pool, cutting off the old paladin.

All turned to see the surface of the pool begin bubbling furiously.

In a spray of foam, something began to lift from the roiling waters. A gigantic creature uncurled itself from the depths of the pool to tower above the companions.

"By Tyr above!" Trooper whispered.

For a scant moment, Kern wondered how Sirana and Dusk could still live. Quickly he realized the truth. They were dead enough. But the magic of the pool had fused their gigantic corpses into a hideous new undead form.

The dragon's tattered wings sprouted from the back of the gigantic half-fiend, and her hands ended in his claws. Dusk's neck sprouted from the center of Sirana's chest, his fanged maw snapping mindlessly. The creature took a lumbering step forward, wading through the pool. Its sinuous dragon tail snapped behind it like a huge, deadly whip. Sirana's dead eyes stared with blank malice. The pool of twilight finally possessed a guardian that it could utterly control.

The dragon's maw opened wide.

"Beware dragonbreath!" Trooper shouted.

Hastily, Kern, Listle, and Daile dove out of the way. Gamaliel crouched protectively before Evaine, still deep in her spell, but a heartbeat later Miltiades stepped between the barbarian and the creature of the pool.

A black, acrid-smelling cloud issued from the dragon's mouth, gouging the stone floor and melting stalagmites into piles of slag. A spray of dark acid splattered against Miltiades' armor, pitting the hard steel. A few droplets flew past, burning into Gamaliel's flesh, but Evaine remained unhurt. That was all that mattered to the barbarian.

The new guardian reached the edge of the pool. It could not leave the water that had spawned it and gave it continued strength. So the guardian reached high above with its gigantic arm and wrenched a huge stalactite from the cavern's ceiling. Dead eyes blazing, it hurled the sharp chunk of stone toward the adventurers.

The stalactite narrowly missed Kern, striking the stone floor and bursting into splinters of rock that traced hot tracks across his exposed skin. He stood, bleeding from a dozen small wounds. Already the guardian was reaching for another stalactite.

Trooper and Miltiades rushed forward, and Kern sprang into motion. But almost immediately, the guardian launched another stalactite. Kern raised his shield, doubting it would do much good against the crushing force of a half-ton of solid limestone.

Abruptly a bright streak of light arced through the air, striking the stalactite in midflight. The chunk of stone veered off its deadly course and plunged into the pool. The guardian let out a piercing shriek of rage.

Kern turned to see Listle clutching the Staff of Twilight. Its powers of levitation had diverted the stalactite from its deadly trajectory.

Again and again, the zombie guardian snapped off sharp-pointed stalactites and hurled them at the adventurers. Listle waved the staff vigorously, using its magic to turn the stones aside. Daile tried to launch arrows at the guardian, but clouds of acid dragonbreath burnt them to ashes before they could reach their target. Kern, Trooper, and Miltiades managed to creep within striking distance.

When at last Kern was within range, he didn't hesitate. He hurled the Hammer of Tyr directly at the guardian's head. The weapon flashed with blue radiance as it spun through the air.

Suddenly a shimmering tentacle of metallic water snaked out of the pool, curling around the hammer. The liquid tentacle halted the weapon in midflight and began dragging it down into the murky depths.

Quickly Kern summoned the hammer back to his outstretched hand. It seemed the pool protected its guardian even as the guardian protected the pool. How could he harm the creature if his hammer couldn't reach it?

A stalactite struck unnervingly close to Kern and the two paladins.

"Listle, what's the matter?" Miltiades called out.

The elf bit her lip, shaking the Staff of Twilight. A thin tendril of smoke rose from its tip. "I think this thing's had it," she said glumly, casting the spent staff aside.

"Well, you'll be able to say the same thing about us shortly if we don't do something about this blasted creature," Trooper snapped. He testily gathered his gray robe around his knobby knees to dodge a flying chunk of rock. "Cat-man, how is that sorceress of yours doing?"

"Her spell is not yet complete," Gamaliel said sharply, his eyes flashing at the mere hint his mistress was not doing all she could.

"Just a question," Trooper grumped. "No need to take it so personally."

"All right, I have an idea," Listle cried out. "But I'm going to need you to distract old two-heads here."

Trooper looked at the elf suspiciously. "What harebrained scheme are you-"

"Just keep zombie-breath occupied, all right?" she replied. She traced an intricate pattern in the air with her fingers. Silvery sparks crackled about her feet, and suddenly she began to move so rapidly she blurred before their eyes.

There was no time to doubt her strategy. The three warriors darted between the cascading rocks, reaching the pool's edge. They attacked-Kern with his hammer, Miltiades with his long sword, Trooper with his rune sword. More metallic tentacles lifted themselves from the pool, snaking wildly to parry their blows. But a few swings managed to slip through, landing against the mutant zombie's knees. It let out a roar and bent over to reach its foes with long, scythelike claws.

As a result, it did not see the silver streak that sped around the far side of the pool, approaching on its blind side.

Just then, Listle reached the melee, the silver sparks around her feet fading as her swiftness spell ended. Still distracted, the creature did not notice as the elf reached out a single finger and touched its flesh, whispering the words of a spell.

Instantly the guardian straightened, growing rigid. The dead eyes that had once been Sirana's stared into space, gazing at some imagined foe with a look equal parts horror and outrage. The dragon's maw snarled at a conjured enemy as the creature clawed futilely at thin air.

Listle's illusion spell had worked! In its mind, the creature was now battling its worst nightmare. What sort of form that nightmare had taken, there was no way to know. But if the guardian lost the imaginary battle, the consequences would prove fatal-and very real.

The elf grinned triumphantly at her fellow warriors. Suddenly, caught in the throes of its phantom battle, the guardian whirled. Its serpent tail whistled through the air, cracking like a gigantic whip as it struck Listle forcibly.

The elf's delicate body was hurled through the air like a piece of chaff. She struck a pile of jagged rocks and did not move. Blood seeped from a wound on Listle's temple.

"No!" Kern screamed in disbelief, taking a step toward the fallen elf.

A hand on his shoulder halted him.

"Kern."

It was Trooper, his voice solemn. "The battle is not over."

Kern shook his head dumbly. Could an illusion…could Listle… die?

At the same moment, Daile moved toward the edge of the pool, raising her bow. She felt a sick knot in her stomach, fear that Listle was dead. But Daile was determined that the elf's sacrifice would not be in vain. Nor would her father's. Now was her chance for vengeance, while the creature was still distracted.

Do not fail me now, bow, she silently instructed her weapon. She nocked an arrow, raising the magical longbow.

"I am no sorcerer," a calm voice said behind her, "but I do know that if you strike the creature with an arrow, the elf's spell will be broken."

Daile froze.

Gamaliel stepped before her. As always, the barbarian's chiseled face was impassive.

Daile clenched her fingers. She ought to release the arrow right away. Her opportunity for vengeance could pass at any moment. But something in Gamaliel's eyes held her.

"A single arrow cannot slay this beast," he went on softly.

The bow trembled in her grip. "But I vowed to my father…"

Gamaliel reached out, clasping her wrist. "Remember what I told you," he said quietly. "Sometimes those with the wild gift lose themselves in the hunt. But this is not your hunt, Daile." He nodded toward Kern. "It is his. Do not take that from him." A shadow touched the barbarian's lips. It might almost have been a smile. "Fear not, Daile. You will have many opportunities in the years to come to honor your father's memory with your deeds."

Slowly Daile lowered the bow. "I will honor him," she whispered fiercely.

Gamaliel only nodded, his grip tightening.

"Kern," Trooper growled fiercely. "Listle's spell won't last much longer. Act now! Use the Hammer of Tyr!"

Kern was dazed and reacting slowly.

"Life was worth everything to Listle," Miltiades prompted quietly. "Yet she was willing to risk her life for this quest. Do not let that sacrifice come to nothing."

These words bit deep into Kern's heart. Suddenly he felt his fear, his anger-his confusion-melt away.

He whirled to face the mutant. The creature writhed before him, still tackling the phantom enemy that only its grotesque eyes could see. It lurched forward, within range.

With a cry to Tyr, Kern hurled the glowing hammer with all his might.

This time the metallic tentacles that reached up to snatch it out of the air were smashed. The hammer hit the guardian full in the chest. Blue lightning crackled, transfixing the zombie. In a heartbeat, the hammer returned to Kern's grip.

"What's going on?" a clear voice asked.

Evaine had woken from her spell. In her hand she held the gem that had been bathed in the magical flame of her brazier. An energy pulsated inside the gem, first dark, then light, beating to a slow, steady rhythm.

"Is your spell complete, Evaine?" Miltiades asked.

"It is." She frowned, noticing the gigantic mutant zombie struggling against the magic that encircled it. "Something tells me I missed out on some highlights."

"We'll explain later!" Kern cried hoarsely. "I think now would be a good time to destroy the pool."

Evaine smiled, her green eyes glinting with a dangerous light. "With pleasure." She raised the pulsating gem and cast it into the pool of twilight.

The crystal sank silently beneath the surface of the pool. At first nothing happened. Kern wondered with a shiver of fear if Evaine's spell had misfired. Then he noticed a faint, pulsating spot where the gem had fallen into the pool, glowing light, then dark, in a steady cadence.

The waters of the pool swirled and bubbled, but the pulsing spot began to spread, stilling the waves. The pool surged in fury, waterspouts reaching to the ceiling. But the pulsating circle continued to enlarge, its steady, calming rhythm unwavering. First dark. Then light. Then dark again.

"What's happening?" Kern shouted above the roar of the waves.

"The pool fights to keep its chaotic nature," Evaine shouted back. "But the magic within the gem is rhythmic, ordered."

Metallic foam flew through the air. The guardian of the pool-the mutant zombie that was half Sirana, half Dusk- screamed as it struggled against the holy magic that surrounded it.

By now all the pool was pulsating. Dark. Light. Dark.

The waves ebbed. The surface of the pool became as still as glass. Even the guardian became motionless, the dragon maw frozen in midscream.

The pool went dark, so dark that all the light seemed to be drained out of the cavern. The blackness hurt Kern's eyes. He counted ten heartbeats in the ominous silence. Then, all of a sudden, the pool flared brilliantly, and everything went white. The searing light seemed to burn right through stone and flesh. Ten more heartbeats. Abruptly, then, the radiance dimmed.

The pool of twilight was no more.

A gaping pit yawned in the cavern floor where the pool had existed only moments before. All that was left of Sirana and Dusk were their bones, fused together in a death embrace. But even as the adventurers watched, those bones crumbled into dust.

Evaine stumbled backward weakly, but Gamaliel caught her before she could fall. Her skin was pallid, eyes hollow, but she was smiling all the same.

"Damn, but I enjoy doing that."

Trooper stood in the shadow of a huge stalagmite, a short distance from the others who were still tending to their battle wounds. A faint, bluish light shone about the old paladin as he argued adamantly with another voice only he could hear.

"It's not as if I was constantly asking you for favors, you know," Trooper whispered cantankerously, his shaggy eyebrows bristling. "Did I ask for a reward when I rescued that twittering, pea-brained Procampurian princess from that kobold den in the Stonelands? No! Did I expect any payment for destroying the Beast Cult of Malar when they had their mangy jackals harrying the highway from Cormyr to the Caravan Cities? No! Did I complain when I had to wade through the sewers beneath the biggest goblinkin warren in Faerun just so I could spy on that dull-witted orc god for you?"

He cocked his head, listening to the reply.

"Well, all right, perhaps I did in that case," he admitted with a snort. "But mind you, it was three years before the smell finally wore off!"

He shook his head, his long white beard wagging. "But that's not the point. I said that you owed me one when I agreed to help the young pup, and I meant it. Now the lad's a true paladin. That means my work is done." Trooper's steely eyes flashed resolutely. "It's time to settle our deal, Tyr."

The blue haze about him flickered for a moment. Trooper listened to the words no other could have heard.

"Nonsense!" he replied gruffly. "I've lived a long life, and a good one, if I do say so myself."

He sighed, sinking down to sit on a low shelf of stone. He was silent for a short while. "I'm tired, Tyr," he muttered finally. "Don't you see? I've had more than enough adventures to comprise a lifetime. But there's one who has served you loyally who has never had these opportunities."

He stole a glance back at the others. Miltiades stood slightly apart from his companions, watching them with what seemed, despite his fleshless face, a sorrowful expression.

"He's done the deeds in death he never had the chance to do in life. Don't you think that's worth something?" Trooper blew a breath through his drooping mustache. "And you don't even have to worry about that precious balance of yours. One life for another. What could be more just than that?"

Trooper scratched his beard, listening. Then he grinned. "I knew you'd come around to reason." His expression grew wistful as he watched his questing companions. "It's funny, but I think I'm going to miss them. Especially that impertinent elf." He scowled. "I always was a fool for dimples."

He sat up straighter, his old joints creaking in protest.

"Well, I'm ready," he whispered, annoyed. "Get on with it!"

The blue light flared brightly about the old paladin, then dimmed.