James Ward - Pool of Twilight

The wraiths drifted closer, their eyes glowing. Kern drew his hammer from his belt, but he didn't know how much good one weapon-enchanted or not-would do against a mob of wraiths.

The shadowy forms reached out dark, spindly arms, ready to bestow death upon their victims.

"May Tyr protect us," Kern murmured.

Suddenly a brilliant sapphire light burst into existence behind Kern and Listle, radiating from deep inside the crypt.

"That he will do, young paladin!" a voice boomed.

The blinding radiance shone forth from the entrance of the crypt, its beams piercing the nebulous bodies of the wraiths. The undead creatures let out soundless screams, writhing in agony as the magical light tore into them. With a collective sigh, the remnants of the wraiths sank back into the dank earth and were gone. The cerulean light dimmed but did not altogether vanish.

Kern and Listle spun about. They saw two things.

The first was that the heavy stone lid of the sarcophagus was askew.

The second was that they were not alone.

A man stood before the sarcophagus. He was clad from head to toe in burnished steel armor, armor that was ornate and oddly archaic looking, bespeaking the customs of another, bygone age. Emblazoned on his breastplate were the golden scales of Tyr, marking him as a paladin. In his gauntleted hand was an unadorned shield, this the source of the holy light.

"Who… who are you?" Listle gasped.

In answer, the paladin flipped back the visor of his helm. Listle clamped a hand over her mouth in terror. The face revealed was not that of a living man. It was a skull. Withered skin, as brittle as parchment, clung to its bones, and a few wisps of dry, strawlike hair hung to either side. The paladin seemed to gaze at them with dark, hollow eye sockets.

"Miltiades!" Kern whispered in awe.

The undead paladin nodded solemnly. "In the flesh." The perpetual grin of death he wore widened even farther. "Er, figuratively speaking, that is."

The questers gathered in the courtyard before Denlor's Tower in the steely predawn light.

Kern saddled his white palfrey, making certain the saddlebags bulging with provisions were securely fastened. Listle was already sitting astride her dappled gray, but then the nimble elf never bothered with tedious details like saddles or reins. Nor did she need saddlebags. Countless small pouches-bulging with myriad spell components-hung around the wide strip of leather she had used to belt her oversized tunic of green wool.

Kern frowned as he glanced at the silver-eyed illusionist. He didn't recall asking Listle to accompany him on the quest. Not that he minded. Her magic was bound to come in handy. It just might have been nice if she had at least pretended the decision was up to him.

A thought struck him. "We don't have a horse for you, Sir…er…Sir Miltiades."

The undead knight had been standing silently on the edge of the courtyard in his archaic, intricately wrought armor. "There is no need to call me 'Sir,' Kern," Miltiades said. There was a faint note of humor in the ghostly voice that echoed inside the knight's faceplate.

Kern swallowed hard. "All right, Si-er, Miltiades. Should I go see if I they have a horse we can buy at the city's livery? It would only take a few minutes."

The paladin shook his head. "That will not be necessary. I have my own steed to bear me."

From a black velvet pouch, Miltiades drew a small ivory figurine carved in the likeness of a horse. He set the carving on the ground, uttering a single sibilant word. The figurine flared brightly, and suddenly a magnificent, snow-white horse stood in the courtyard. The animal tossed its shining mane, its silver-studded barding jingling pleasantly.

"That's a handy trick," Listle said, gazing at the equine in open admiration. "Instantaneous horse."

"It is good to see you again, Eritophenes." Miltiades greeted the horse, and the magical stallion snorted, stamping a hoof in reply. The feeling was apparently mutual.

Kern shivered, but he wasn't certain if it was from the morning chill or from standing so close to the undead paladin. While everything about Miltiades' manner was noble and kind, it was hard for Kern to forget that the paladin was… well, dead, for lack of a better description. A coldness always seemed to linger near the knight, along with a faint, dusty aroma that reminded Kern of the graveyard. Needless to say, the paladin's presence was going to take a little getting used to.

The wild mage, Sirana, appeared out of the shadows, astride a skittish roan stallion with a perfect white star on its forehead. When she saw Kern, she smiled.

"Are you ready for your quest, paladin?" she asked in her sultry voice.

Kern blushed, mumbling something unintelligible in reply. Sirana's stunning smile widened.

The wild mage wore only a cream-colored traveling cloak over her thin white robe. This warranted a clear look of disapproval on Listle's part. However, before the elf could comment, Tarl and Anton stepped out of the tower, bearing a few more odds and ends the travelers might find useful on their journey.

Both clerics had been astonished to see their old friend Miltiades that morning, but pleased, of course. It was certainly a sign that Tyr favored them, Anton had said.

"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 he looked 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.