As Salen removed the blades from the round wooden slab, Gwen came up close to Ren and touched him lightly on the arm. "You're good," she said, "and you're no eyesore, either." She ran a finger teasingly close to the opening of his tunic, and turned her body till she was directly alongside him. He could feel his heart speed up as she tossed her rich dark hair back and her body brushed his side. Her thick, brown hair smelled like a summer meadow, and he could feel his head reel as sensations he had ignored for twelve long months rose now, unbidden. "You know, if you didn't smell so bad, I could see us getting together."

Before he could respond, Gwen whisked away from him and returned to the table where Jensena was now sitting, awaiting the start of the match.

"It's getting hot in here," said Ren, turning back to face Salen.

"I'm sure you think it is," she said with a knowing glimmer in her eyes. "What do you say we get started in earnest?" Ren nodded, and she returned his two black daggers and made her first toss of the contest. One thunked into the outer edge of the center circle, and the other landed in the border between the center and the second ring.

She's tough, Ren thought, but not tough enough. In one motion, Ren slid both blades into throwing position, one in each hand, and flicked them both toward the target with only a fraction of a second between throws. He watched in horror as the two blades parted as they neared the target and slammed into the board several inches wide of center! He stalked to the board and jerked out the two black-handled blades. They looked right; they even felt right-until he pulled out the crystal-handled daggers and felt the difference in balance, and then he knew he had been duped. These ladies were clever. The difference between the blades he had started with and the ones they had substituted was as subtle as the exchange had been. It was a perfect response to his stacked-platter prank, but he would not be duped.

He returned to the throwing mark, shaking his head. "Salen, you're throwing with a vengeance. On the other hand, I appear to be losing my touch. I'm afraid if we make too many more tosses, I'll only be humiliated. What do you say we make one last throw for the money and call it quits?"

"That's all right by me" she said quickly, her hands shooting out for the white daggers. She carefully took her stance, tossed, and planted both of her daggers in the center of the circle. The quivering blades were barely over an inch apart. She stood back proudly, her eyes on Ren's big hands and the black-handled blades he was holding.

"I'm sure you won't mind if I use my own daggers for this final throw," Ren said matter-of-factly. In a blur of motion, before she had a chance to respond, he had dropped the substitute daggers and pulled his own ebony killing blades from his boot tops. Without a moment's hesitation, he threw his daggers with full force at the pine target. They slammed into the board, lodged up to their hilts, perfectly positioned at the center of the board, directly between Salen's blades.

The three fighters glanced nervously at each other and at the quivering hilts of the ebony blades. Ren walked to the board and removed Salen's daggers and his own as if he were pulling them from warm tallow.

As he returned to the three, Salen tossed him a sack of silver. Then the three of them headed for the door of the inn without saying a word. "Maybe another time," said Ren softly as he watched them go. He hadn't meant to insult the three female warriors or chase them away. They were as competitive as he, and it had been too long since he'd faced a good challenge. He realized that he had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

He sheathed his daggers and returned to the bar. "There's tables to be wiped," said Sot in a near whisper, awe apparent in both his voice and his look.

"No problem," said Ren amiably. It was the beginning of the best night he'd had in a long time.

The sun was setting on a cloudless sky over the city of Phlan. As with every evening in Phlan, a double shift of watchmen and soldiers readied themselves for whatever dangers the night might bring. Darkness was the time favored by the many monster tribes living in the ruins of Old Phlan, which surrounded the new walled portion of the city that its builders called "Civilized Phlan." Orcs roamed the slums immediately adjacent to the new city. Goblins and hobgoblins wandered the neighboring Kuto's Well and Podol Plaza areas. It was said that fire and hill giants ruled at Stojanow Gate and Valjevo Castle, landmarks that could be seen from the walls of the merchants' quarter. Rumor had it that even these monsters were afraid of the undead that were starting to rise in greater and greater numbers from Valhingen Graveyard, which was a mere five miles from the city's shipping docks.

It was on one of the city's wide piers that Tarl was walking when he spotted the figure of a woman, lying belly down, hammering on the dock so hard that she was actually causing the heavy wooden planks to rattle with each blow of her fists. Beside her stood a great horse. As Tarl moved closer, he could hear that the woman was crying. His curiosity piqued, he edged closer still.

The horse raised its head as Tarl approached, but it made no movement or sound. The woman remained oblivious to his presence. Tarl could see now that blood was caking to the sides of her hands, where they were worn raw from hammering against the nails and wood splinters on the dock planking. Compelled by his faith, Tarl squatted down and grabbed the woman's large hands in his own. "Please, lady, you must stop. Enough is enough." Had the woman struggled against his grip, he probably could not have stopped her from pulling her hands loose and resuming pounding the dock, but she turned her head toward him and left her hands extended, as if perhaps her energies were spent, Tarl could feel the power of a healing spell flowing through his own body and into hers as he muttered a prayer to Tyr. Slowly the caked blood loosened and sloughed off. New skin formed, pink and pale, to seal the broken blood vessels. More new skin formed to cover the tender wound. Soon her torn hands became smooth again.

Though Tarl's clerical skills did not approach those of Sontag, he was blessed with great innate power. He had used his healing abilities before, and had always found healing a very special exchange. The process inevitably involved sharing something extremely deep and personal with the receiver. Healing this woman was no different, except that he felt as though she also had shared something deep and personal with him. He squeezed her strong hands in his own and then pulled the woman gently to a sitting position. He stared into her eyes, and even in the dim twilight, he could see that they were a captivating green. The highlights of her long, full hair shimmered red in the flickering light of the torches that lined the docks. He glanced down, aware that he was staring, and that is when he realized that her leather garments were ridiculously tight, stretched over her tall frame in such a way that they awkwardly revealed much of her impressively ample body.

Tarl cleared his throat and started to speak. His voice cracked as he introduced himself. "I am… Tarl Desanea, a cleric of the warrior god, Tyr. I am… at your service…"

"Thank you," said the woman quietly.

Still holding her hands, Tarl pulled the young woman up to her feet. He swallowed hard as he realized that she was nearly a fist's height taller than he and impressively fit. His face reddened as he noticed that a patch of material above her left breast had torn loose, revealing more woman than he had ever seen in his twenty years. He stepped back toward the horse, releasing his grip on her hands. "Uh, do you have a…blanket… or something?"