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long enough to lead the horses up out of these ruts?”
    “No problem, Brother Donal,” answered Tarl. The young cleric hurried ahead of the first wagon to retrieve the war hammer he had just launched at an unfortunate sapling, and then he jogged back to the lead draft horse. Tarl pulled gently but firmly on the horse’s bridle, guiding the animal to the side of the narrow roadway where the path was a little smoother. The horses pulling the second wagon followed suit, stepping into line behind the first. Tarl continued to walk just ahead of the front wagon, knowing that they would soon reach the point where they must leave the pass through the foothills of the Dragonspine Mountains and follow the legendary Stojanow River south into Phlan.
    Brother Anton, who had been riding beside Brother Donal, jumped down to join Tarl. “Your practice is comin’ along well. Unless my eyes deceive me, you haven’t missed your mark in a dozen throws.”
    An unabashed grin broke out on Tarl’s face, and he muttered an embarrassed thank-you as the giant of a man reached his side. Like Tarl and the other ten men journeying together to Phlan, Anton was a warrior cleric in a sect that worshiped Tyr, the EvenHanded, God of Justice and War. Anton’s weapon of choice was the throwing hammer. He could split a good-sized tree—or a good-sized man—with one well-aimed throw.
    “Now, don’t go gettin’ puffed up from a word o’ praise,” said Anton sternly. “What I was wantin’ to tell you is that you’re doin’ just fine with that toy hammer of yours. Fact is, you don’t even have to think about it anymore.” The big man mimicked a limp-wristed throw—”Whoosh, thunk, bull’s-eye… every throw. It’s time now for you to learn to put your back into it, lad. Get yourself a real hammer and start practicin’ a man’s throw.”
    Anton reached under his tunic and pulled from his belt a hammer that was easily twice the size of Tarl’s.
    Tarl shook his head from side to side. “But that’s a smith’s hammer. It’s for fixing armor, not fighting.”
    Anton stiff-armed Tarl to the ground. “Foolish whelp! Do ya think I don’t know what kind of hammer this is? Do ya think you’ll always have your choice of weapons in a fight?” Anton held the hammer down to Tarl, and when Tarl grabbed hold, Anton jerked him to his feet with an effortless tug. “You’d better get used to usin’ anything ya can get your hands on as a weapon—I don’t care if it’s a smith’s hammer or a hunk o’ wood. Now, start throwin.’ Start shatterin’ a bit of this countryside instead o’ just dentin’ it.”
    Tarl stared dumbly at the hammer for a moment, feeling its weight and its awkward balance as he shifted it in his hand.
    “One more thing, Tarl. I want you to make every fifth throw lyin’ on either your back or your belly. Many’s the time I had to take an enemy down after bein’ decked myself,” Anton said with a grimace of recollection.
    Tarl seriously doubted that the huge Anton had ever been knocked down in battle, but his stinging backside was an effective reminder that he was in no position to argue the point. Besides, Tarl had no business even thinking about arguing with a senior brother in the order, and anyhow, he knew Anton was right. Tarl shifted the heavy hammer back and forth in his hand several times, then raised it and stepped into his first throw. The big hammer spiraled crookedly through the air and fell to the ground a good six feet short of the tree Tarl was aiming at. Tarl jogged past the lead wagon to where the hammer had landed. Anton fell in step alongside the head wagon and left Tarl to his throwing.
    It had been nearly two years since Tarl’s eighteenth birthday, when he had taken his clerical vows in the Order of Tyr. He had been traveling with these eleven brothers in the faith for only eight weeks, but he believed he had learned more in that short time than he had in his previous twenty-two months at the