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 full strength of your torso is packed behind your throw. That way your arm snaps forward with the force of a released spring, and your hammer does the damage ya need it to." Anton took the smith's hammer from Tarl and dropped to the ground to demonstrate. The big man moved with a speed and ease that belied his giant stature. True to his instructions, his arm snapped like a spring, sending the hammer forward with a force Tarl hadn't realized even Anton could manage from his back. When the hammer thwacked into a nearby tree, the entire length of the trunk split, as if it had been struck by an axe.

It took all his concentration, but many tries later, Tarl felt the tightly wound tension and powerful release of the snap that Brother Anton had spoken of. Tarl's throw missed its mark by several inches, but he knew he would never forget the technique, the feel of power in that throw. He also knew that he had been lacking that energy even when he had thrown from a standing position. He continued his practice with renewed enthusiasm all through the afternoon and into the evening, feeling a growing sense of pride and accomplishment as his hammer thrummed through the air with newfound speed and energy.

Though he was no giant like Anton, Tarl was tall-easily six feet-and strong. Nevertheless, by the time the brothers stopped for the night, Tarl's arms, shoulders, and back ached from the repeated use of previously underworked muscles. When Brother Sontag sent him for water in the morning, Tarl could barely hoist the yoke to his shoulders. At Anton's suggestion, Tarl heated a poultice and spread it between his shoulder blades. Anton instructed the young cleric to lie down on his bedroll, and he massaged the tarlike substance into Tarl's back and shoulder blades with his huge hands. The medication from the poultice quickly spread a penetrating, rejuvenating warmth through his aching muscles.

"You've made the mistake of all young men," Brother Sontag said, sitting down beside Tarl and Anton. Sontag was the eldest of the clerics in the group and, as such, its leader. He often had a word of advice for Tarl or even some of the other brothers. "You let a single success possess you. For a day, the hammer was your master. When you go back and practice again, you will be the master."

"You said the same thing about the ball and chain, Brother Sontag. Do all weapons punish us before we gain mastery over them?"

"Yes, Tarl, they do-and because you understand that, I believe you are ready for the Test of the Sword."

Anton's face paled noticeably. "Tarl's just a pup-barely twenty, if I can count. What's the rush, Brother Sontag?"

Sontag waved a hand toward Anton to silence him. "How many weapons have you mastered, Tarl?" Brother

Sontag stared directly into the youth's eyes as he asked the question.

Tarl thought for a moment. He knew of the Test of the Sword-that it was the final challenge he must face before becoming a full-fledged cleric in the Order of Tyr-but the nature of the test was a secret. For all he knew, Sontag's question could even be part of the test. Tarl sat up, squared his shoulders, and returned the elderly cleric's piercing gaze. "I can better my use of any weapon, Brother Sontag, but you yourself have told me I have mastered the ball and chain and that I will master the hammer. I believe, then, by my feelings, that I can also say I have mastered the shield."

"And the sword, Tarl? Have you mastered the sword?" Sontag prompted.

Tarl laughed nervously. "Of course not. The clerics of Tyr don't carry swords. There's no one here who can teach-"

"Wrong, Tarl. You knew that was wrong before you even spoke the words. Didn't you wield a sword before you took your vows?"

"Sure, I used a sword," Tarl answered self-consciously, aware that Brothers Donal, Adrian, Seriff, and the rest had gathered round to listen.

"And did you master it?" Sontag asked, his wizened eyes glittering.

"I-I guess I was pretty good. Of course, I didn't have the kind of intensive training I've received from all of you with the other weapons." Tarl was no longer looking at Brother Sontag. He felt that somehow everything he said was wrong. During the months since he'd taken his vows, he had asked more than once why clerics of Tyr couldn't use swords. Each time the response had been silence or a gruff "You'll know soon enough." Swords were wonderful weapons, certainly easier to wield than any of the weapons favored by the clerics of Tyr. Tarl was deeply committed to Tyr and the order, but he had always assumed that the clerics' refusal to use swords was some quirk of fanaticism of the type that seems to infiltrate almost any religious order.

"We all wielded swords before we joined the order, Tarl. There are men among us who could teach you proficiency with a sword, if you wanted to learn."