"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 helooked 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 sun was barely visible amid a sea of clouds as the four rode through the empty streets of the city. Frost had etched Phlan's buildings with its pale gilding during the night, and the air was bitterly cold. By the time they reached the city's edge, the overcast sky hung dark, low, and sullen above the city rooftops.

Kern led the way through the Death Gates astride his sleek palfrey. Sirana followed close behind, with Listle next on her dappled gray, unconsciously frowning at the beautiful wild mage. Last to ride through the gate was the undead paladin Miltiades. A banner flew from the tip of the lance he held upright, its butt-end braced in his stirrup. The wind caught the banner, unfurling it, and the golden scales of Tyr shone dully in the dim light.

Phlan faded into the distance as Kern guided his mount west along the pebble-strewn shore of the Moonsea. The ruins of the red tower lay to the southwest, across the vast lake. While a ship would have made for a shorter journey, sailing on the Moonsea was risky during the winter months. Sudden snow squalls could arise out of nowhere, icing up a ship's rigging and snapping its mast in a matter of minutes. Not only was an overland journey safer, it would allow them the opportunity to stop by the dwelling of the sorceress Evaine.

Kern's armor was cold against his skin as he rode, but he ignored it as best he could. He rested his hand on the warhammer at his hip. Already its weight at his side was growing comfortable. Slung over his left shoulder was the shield Miltiades had borne when he appeared in the crypt. The undead paladin had presented it to Kern last night, a gift from the god Tyr himself. Kern was so dumbfounded he would have completely forgotten to voice his thanks if Listle hadn't elbowed him hard in the ribs. The silver shield was without adornment-as befit a paladin-aspirant. Kern would be granted an emblem of his own on the day he became a true paladin. If that day ever came, he thought with a sigh.

They had been riding perhaps an hour when Sirana guided her mount close to Kern's.

"There's a storm coming in off the Moonsea."

Kern couldn't help but marvel at the beautiful mage's voice. It was rich and smoky. Even simple words seemed musical when she spoke them.

"How do you know?"

"Can't you feel it?" A look of surprise crossed her face. Then she laughed. "I'm sorry. Of course you can't. Sometimes I forget that not everyone grew up a wizard in the wilderness." She scanned the placid surface of the Moonsea. The water and the sky were the same dull shade of gray, so that it was impossible to tell where the two met on the horizon. "I can sense the storm approaching. It's like…" She searched for the right words. "It's like a power in the air." She turned her gaze on Kern. "An energy I can feel tingling against my skin. Right now a few snowflakes whirl by, but by evening snow will blanket the land. However, the storm will be less severe farther from the Moonsea. We may care to ride a few leagues inland."

"If you think we should," Kern agreed. "Let's confer with Miltiades."

"It is your quest, Kern," the undead paladin said from the back of his white mount. "We will do as you see fit."

Kern swallowed hard. He had naturally assumed that Miltiades would act as the group's leader. Apparently that was not to be so. He drew a deep breath. He hadn't expected to be giving orders to a legendary hero like the paladin.

Sirana turned toward Listle, who was riding bareback nearby. "What do think?" the wild mage asked the elf. "As a sorceress, I'm certain you can feel the storm coming as well as I."

"Of course," Listle lied, gritting her teeth. Oh, she wished she could wipe that smug look off the wild mage's pretty face. They weren't even halfway through the first day, and Sirana already had Kern wrapped neatly around her little finger.

"Good," Sirana smiled. "Shall we ride inland then?"

"Oh, I don't know," Listle replied, her voice dripping honey. "I'm rather fond of getting caught in blizzards, sinking into deep snowdrifts, and freezing perfectly solid. Aren't you?"

"Well, I'm not certain now," Sirana said without a trace of sarcasm. "You make it sound so pleasant."

Listle glared at her, then wheeled her horse away from the frozen edge of the Moonsea, heading inland.

Kern shook his head as he rode after the elf and the wild mage. "Something tells me this is going to be a long journey," he muttered to no one in particular.

"Look at this." Daile knelt in the leafy litter of the forest floor. She brushed away bits of dry, crackling bracken to reveal a single hoofprint pressed into a small patch of cold mud.

Gamaliel crouched beside her. The great cat had assumed his barbarian form this morning, as he usually did when he traveled with humans other than just Evaine.

"There was a hard frost last night," Daile went on. "This damp spot couldn't have melted until well after dawn. I'd say this track is no more than a quarter hour old."

Gamaliel nodded, his chiseled face intent. "Red deer. A young buck, I would guess. Two points. Perhaps three. Still fat this early in winter."

Daile stood swiftly, the morning sunlight weaving strands of fire through her short red-gold hair. With practiced ease she strung her polished ashwood bow. It gave a faint, musical hum of anticipation. She looked excitedly at Gamaliel.

"Let's go."

The two moved easily among the gray, leafless trees, Daile every bit as silent as the lean and powerful barbarian. She cleared her mind of all thoughts, letting the sights, sounds, and scents of the forest soak into her being. Caught up as she was in the hunt, she did not notice the quiet look of approval Gamaliel bestowed on her.

She is skilled for one so young, Gamaliel thought. She tries to be part of the forest, rather than master of it. His earlier suspicions were confirmed. Yes, he decided, she possesses the wild gift. She hears the voice of the wind.