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temple in Vaasa.
    Even on the road, Tarl continued to be tutored in his studies and devotionals, and the combat training was more intensive than anything to which he had previously been exposed. Brother Donal had drilled Tarl in techniques for guarding the flanks and rear when fighting with allies. Brother Sontag had taught him the use of the ball and chain, a grisly weapon almost as dangerous to use in practice as in battle. Tarl had received a nasty blow to the head in the middle of one of his own practice swings that left him with the utmost respect for Brother Sontag and his chosen weapon, and a headache as well. Even before today’s instruction, Brother Anton had worked with Tarl for many days, in his usual gruff but effective manner, drilling him on the use of the shield as both a defensive and offensive weapon.
    Tarl was anxious to test his new skills in battle, and he knew his chance would come before long. He and the eleven brothers with whom he was traveling had been charged with delivering the sacred Hammer of Tyr to the newly built temple in Phlan. None of the men had ever been to Phlan before, but they had learned something of the port city’s history before setting out on their mission.
    As Tarl understood it, some fifty years ago, Phlan had been completely leveled by marauding dragons. Evil creatures of all description had subsequently moved into the ruins, and it had been only in the last few years that people had regained control of a portion of the city and brought back to it some semblance of civilization. However, most of Phlan was still inhabited by chaotic, evil creatures, and the Stojanow River, which had once been the city’s lifeblood, had been mysteriously turned to a vile, stinking channel of acidic poisons.
    The Temple of Tyr was the first temple to be erected in the city since its fall. The revered Hammer of Tyr would provide symbolic strength to the occupants of the temple, and would be wielded by the temple’s head cleric when the warrior clerics were ready to assist Phlan’s residents in the reclamation of even more of the city’s lost territory. Tarl and his companions were to add their strength to the existing forces of the new temple.
    The thought of real action stirred something in Tarl. He yearned to earn a name for himself as a great warrior of Tyr, a powerful cleric serving the cause of good in the Realms. Tarl already had gained the respect of his teachers for his exceptional clerical abilities. But his healing powers were a gift from Tyr, not a skill he had developed through sweat and dedication. He wanted to prove his devotion to his god and the order by succeeding in battle, the true vocation of the Tyrian clerics.
    As Tarl continued to practice, he envisioned all manner of foes. He took dead aim at tree-ogres, stone-ores, and stump-kobolds. Unfortunately, the monsters seemed to be winning. Tarl focused his concentration on his next throw—aim, step, close, swing … and release. The smith’s hammer whirred as it spun end-over-end and smashed with a resounding clunk into the small boulder Tarl had targeted. It was Tarl’s third hit since he had started practicing with the awkward hammer, but the first two had only reached their mark; this one split it in two. Had the rock been a hobgoblin, its head would have been split wide open.
    “One enemy dies, Tarl, but another waits! Quick, behind ya!” Anton’s voice carried over the rumble of the wagons. Knowing Anton’s intent, Tarl grabbed the hammer, dropped to the ground, rolled, and threw the weapon at a white pine nearly twenty paces from where he lay. The hammer thunked into the tree’s trunk just an inch from the ground.
    “By Tyr, he’ll be hoppin’ for a day or two! Ya did some powerful damage to his foot, lad!” Anton laughed as he approached Tarl.
    “Even when ya throw from the ground—no, especially when ya throw from the ground—ya still need all the momentum your body can give ya. Channel your energy so the