"Stop it!" Tarl shrieked at the vampire. "Whatever you're doing, stop! Leave him alone! What do I have to do before you'll leave him alone?"

"What dooo I want?" the vampire asked caustically. "A dooozennn hoooly mennnn enter my graveyard carrying that wretched hammer that wakes the undead and leaves noooone of my minions at peace, and you ask what I want?" The vampire fought to stand. "I want that blasphemous weapon-noooow-or yoooour friend diessss!" With a twist of his bony hand, the vampire threw Anton into even greater throes of pain.

"Stop! Leave him alone!"

"The hammer, oooor he diessss! Give me the hammer, and I'll provide yoooou and him with safe transpoooort from this place." The vampire raised his hand toward Anton and held it up threateningly.

Tarl hurled the hammer directly at the creature, but the vampire flung itself to one side, and the hammer flew by harmlessly. The creature gestured madly, and before the hammer could return to Tarl's hand, it was caught and held in red webbing that suddenly appeared in the air. The look of fear that had entered the vampire's eyes a moment ago changed to a gleam of pleasure. "Thank yoooou, boooy," the monster hissed.

Tarl dropped down beside Anton. The big man was still writhing in pain. He spoke only one word that could be understood-"No!" Tarl could imagine what Anton intended to say: "No, Tarl! Don't throw the hammer! Don't listen to him!" But it was too late. Tarl had lost the Hammer of Tyr, and now he would surely die with his friend.

"Now get away from me! Leave me be!" the vampire shrieked. There was no pleasure in its voice anymore, only pain. "Where will yoooou gooo? Tell me, and be gooone!"

Tarl didn't understand why the creature would give him and Anton leave, but he wasn't waiting around to find out. "To Civilized Phlan. To the Temple of Tyr," he replied quickly.

Suddenly a huge puff of deep crimson smoke surrounded Tarl and Anton. For a moment, all Tarl could see was red. He could see neither the vampire nor Anton, nor indeed even his own hands. The roar of an unfathomable wind churned and swirled all around him, but he could feel nothing. It was as if his body were protected by layer upon layer of soft, impenetrable cloth.

When the red cloud finally cleared, he was sitting beside Anton in front of a gate to what was obviously the new temple of Tyr.

"Brothers!" Tarl cried from the gate. "Brothers of Tyr, help us!"

Tarl could see men moving in the twilight. Two approached, carrying lanterns, and when they saw the condition of their two fellow brothers, they called for more help. It took four men to carry Anton to a bed within the confines of the temple. For hours they worked on his feverish body, hardly exchanging words with each other or with Tarl as they tried to ease the pain of their fallen brother. When finally they had done all they could, an elder of the order who resembled Brother Sontag rested his hand on Tarl's shoulder and led him to a room crowded with tables. "Sit," said the old man. "Talk, and I'll get you some food. I can see from your eyes, and from the condition of your brother, that there must be much to tell." The elder brother left and returned shortly with stew and bread and bitter ale, then sat down beside Tarl.

Tarl ate absently. His body craved the food, but he had no energy to think about it. He had lost everything this day-ten of his brothers, the sacred object they had entrusted him with, and, he feared, Anton. After a night of spell-casting and laying on of hands and applying poultices, the brothers had succeeded only in easing Anton's pain enough so that he could lie in some semblance of peace. But there was no spark in the man, no sign of understanding, and only a dim glimmer of recognition for Tarl when he was nearby. He had not spoken a word since they left the graveyard.

Again the old man prompted Tarl to speak. Tarl reached out and clutched the brother's hand. "Twelve men started this journey, brother…"

"Tern. Brother Tern. And you are called…?"

"Tarl… Those same men trained me and initiated me into the Brotherhood of Tyr…" Tarl quickly related the story of their journey from Vaasa and their first sight of the Stojanow River.

"Here, we call it the Barren River," Brother Tern interspersed. "No life can survive in its poison waters."

Tarl nodded and continued. He told of the skeletons and zombies and wraiths, and of the horrible, screaming deaths of his brothers. But he did not mention the graveyard, nor did he tell of the vampire. He referred to the ruins of Phlan and expressed his belief that the Hammer of Tyr, with its tremendous power for good, must have awakened and infuriated all the undead of the city simply by its proximity. What evil had left its mark on Anton's forehead, he did not know. He vowed to find out.

When he told the cleric that the Hammer of Tyr was missing somewhere in the ruins, he could see the older man's pain. The clerics of Phlan had counted desperately on the hammer's strength and power as they finished their temple and went out in numbers to face the very creatures Tarl was describing.

Aloud, Tarl vowed to help the brothers of Phlan in their search for the missing hammer as soon as he could clear his mind through mourning and meditation. Silently, Tarl vowed that he would spend his days building his knowledge, skills, power, and experience until he could, himself, regain the sacred hammer from the vampire and exact vengeance for his friends. The lies to Brother Tern were so much bile in Tarl's mouth, but he knew that the responsibility for the loss of the hammer was his, and he was determined to set things right by himself.

The old cleric was sympathetic to Tarl's plans. He believed he had convinced the young man to rest within the confines of the temple for at least a day and then seek out a private place, perhaps in the woodlands north of the city, to fulfill his need to pray and recuperate from the horrors he had witnessed.

When Tarl was finished with his meal and Brother Tern had departed, he went to Anton. Every cleric in the temple had laid hands on Anton, accomplishing almost nothing, but Tarl could not help but try again himself. His hand reached out toward Anton's forehead, but it recoiled when his fingers made contact with the gelid skin. Where the black word had buried itself in Anton's flesh, the cold was so intense that it burned. Tarl forced himself to press his hands onto his brother's forehead, then began to pray. He could feel the healing powers of Tyr strong within his hands, but he felt no exchange of damaged energy for whole as he usually did in healing. When there wasn't even a glimmer of warmth or recognition from Anton after Tarl had spent several hours with him, Tarl rolled out his bedding on a cot and lay down beside his teacher and friend.

There would be nopeace tonight, Ren thought, eyeing the crowd in the tavern. The homey pub was filled with people-soldiers, thieves, adventurers, even a magic-user or two-most of them newcomers to Phlan, here no doubt in response to the town council's offer of money and treasure for each uncivilized section of the city cleared of danger. Most of the strangers were ready to make voluntary expeditions in exchange for promised rewards, but recently the town council had even begun to send convicted criminals on expeditions outside the walls of Civilized Phlan, in lieu of jail terms. As Ren examined the crowd, he thought for the thousandth time how strange it was that they all looked so young-much too young to be facing the monsters that controlled the ruins of the old city.

Ren never thought of himself as old, though he felt he'd aged a lifetime in the last year, but he wasn't wet behind the ears like the roomful of youngsters around him. He'd stolen the best from the best. He'd killed monsters by the dozens, and men in even greater numbers. And he had loved-god, how he had loved! He knew that no one in the packed room could have experienced a love like his. He closed his eyes and thought of Tempest. Her hair was the flaming sienna red of bur oak leaves in autumn. She was a tall woman, with a striking full figure. She could move with the grace and silence of a cat or the provocative bawdiness of a street wench. When the two of them had prowled the streets and rooftops together, she had always worn black leathers. The thought of her, buxom and strong, working her way over the rooftops with ease, stopping to tease him with a glance or a motion of her hands, made Ren's blood stir…