He scowled at her. "Well, I suppose I am at that," he said gruffly, and then he went to sleep.

Judging by the rising crescent of the moon, it was well after midnight when Listle woke.

She sat up and cocked her head, listening with her delicately pointed elven ears. There it was again: a voice whispering among the trees. She slipped quietly out of her blanket, noticing that Trooper's bedroll was empty. Kern was snoring, sound asleep, and Miltiades appeared deep in reverie, gazing into the last embers of the fire. Silently, so as not to disturb either, the elf padded away into the shadows of the forest.

She followed the faint whispering, and moments later peered from behind a juniper bush to see a peculiar sight.

Trooper sat on an old stump, bathed in a faint blue radiance. The old paladin seemed to be engaged in a conversation with someone, though who it might be, Listle couldn't say. She didn't see anyone else in the clearing.

"Are you really certain he's worth the trouble?" Trooper muttered, his beard bristling. "Oh, he's brave enough, and strong, too. And I'll grant you that brains have never been a paladin's primary requisite. But he doesn't have much faith in himself, you know."

The old man bent his head, as though listening to some reply. He scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. "True enough. Faith can be taught. But it isn't easy, and it takes time. A great deal of time, in fact, and that's something I really don't have too much of these days."

Trooper paused. Finally he sighed, nodding. "Well, it goes against my better judgment," he growled. "However, I'll do it if you think I should. But you owe me for this one, Tyr!"

Listle's mouth opened in a silent gasp as she hastily away. Had she heard properly?

"That's ridiculous, Listle," she whispered to herself as she slipped soundlessly through the trees. "He couldn't have been talking to… to a…"

Shivering, she left that thought unfinished as she hurried back to camp.

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 inhis 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!"