James Ward: Pool of Radiance

"No!" she screamed. "No!" She knew enough about wishing lore to know that she had made the cardinal mistake of wishers. She had wished carelessly. "Look at me! I'm a monster! I'm huge!" she cried. Shal fell to her knees, terrified and disgusted by what she had done. She knew the change was permanent unless she used another wish.

Cerulean tried desperately to break into her thoughts. Her terror and revulsion registered on his brain like a stabbing knife. The image projected by Shal was of a grotesque parody of a human female, distorted almost beyond recognition by musculature and sinews. The reality was quite different. Cerulean could perceive human beauty. He certainly had a sense of what Ranthor found attractive in women. Shal had indeed changed as a result of the wish; she was considerably larger than she had been. But the basic beauty of her features and the proportion of her figure had not changed. If she was unattractive, it was only to someone who could not find beauty in a large woman. Her appearance was marred only by the ripped, ill-fitting clothing that still managed to hold a few parts of her expanded figure captive.

But Shal was oblivious to Cerulean's mental shouts. She stared at the big calves that protruded from where her ankles had been, and at her forearms, where they tested the limits of the wrist cuffs. She could only imagine what her face must look like.

Her immediate thought was to wish herself back to her former size. But as much as she wanted to make that wish, she shook her head resolutely. No, Ranthor had entrusted his entire magical legacy to her. It was not to be wasted. Shal's one goal was to make him proud. She had made a gross mistake, and she must live with it. The ring's magic must be preserved for her quest to avenge her master's murder.

"What a fool I am! I can't even trust myself with a simple ring!" she chastised herself. Shal reached for the ring to pull it off, but her hands had grown much larger than before and the ring wouldn't budge. "Damn! Instead of wishing to be strong, I could at least have wished that me and my belongings were in Phlan-"

"No!" Shal screamed as she felt the ring's magic working once more. Before she could even blink, she found herself kneeling on the planks of a long wooden dock, facing the twilight silhouette of a city she had never seen but knew without a doubt was Phlan. Her bedroll, her saddle, and Cerulean were beside her. The horror of her stupidity bludgeoned her like a battle-axe, and she fell prostrate on the dock and wept, beating her fists against the planks with each rage-filled sob.

Passersby gawked at the huge but comely woman and her seemingly shrunken leather clothing, but none moved closer or offered assistance. They could see a great war-horse standing protectively by the woman's side, and if that wasn't enough, the big woman was rattling the two-inch-thick boards of the dock with every blow of her massive fists. If the woman wanted to cry in public, there were few if any who would question her or try to stop her.

Two wagons bumped and jolted their way along the deeply rutted road. "Yo! Tarl!" Brother Donal called down from the head wagon. "Can you interrupt your hammer-throwing long enough to lead the horses up out of these ruts?"

"No problem, Brother Donal," answered Tarl. The young cleric hurried ahead of the first wagon to retrieve the war hammer he had just launched at an unfortunate sapling, and then he jogged back to the lead draft horse. Tarl pulled gently but firmly on the horse's bridle, guiding the animal to the side of the narrow roadway where the path was a little smoother. The horses pulling the second wagon followed suit, stepping into line behind the first. Tarl continued to walk just ahead of the front wagon, knowing that they would soon reach the point where they must leave the pass through the foothills of the Dragonspine Mountains and follow the legendary Stojanow River south into Phlan.

Brother Anton, who had been riding beside Brother Donal, jumped down to join Tarl. "Your practice is comin' along well. Unless my eyes deceive me, you haven't missed your mark in a dozen throws."

An unabashed grin broke out on Tarl's face, and he muttered an embarrassed thank-you as the giant of a man reached his side. Like Tarl and the other ten men journeying together to Phlan, Anton was a warrior cleric in a sect that worshiped Tyr, the Even-Handed, God of Justice and War. Anton's weapon of choice was the throwing hammer. He could split a good-sized tree-or a good-sized man-with one well-aimed throw.

"Now, don't go gettin' puffed up from a word o' praise," said Anton sternly. "What I was wantin' to tell you is that you're doin' just fine with that toy hammer of yours. Fact is, you don't even have to think about it anymore." The big man mimicked a limp-wristed throw-"Whoosh, thunk, bull's-eye… every throw. It's time now for you to learn to put your back into it, lad. Get yourself a real hammer and start practicin' a man's throw."

Anton reached under his tunic and pulled from his belt a hammer that was easily twice the size of Tarl's.

Tarl shook his head from side to side. "But that's a smith's hammer. It's for fixing armor, not fighting."

Anton stiff-armed Tarl to the ground. "Foolish whelp! Do ya think I don't know what kind of hammer this is? Do ya think you'll always have your choice of weapons in a fight?" Anton held the hammer down to Tarl, and when Tarl grabbed hold, Anton jerked him to his feet with an effortless tug. "You'd better get used to usin' anything ya can get your hands on as a weapon-I don't care if it's a smith's hammer or a hunk o' wood. Now, start throwin.' Start shatterin' a bit of this countryside instead o' just dentin' it."

Tarl stared dumbly at the hammer for a moment, feeling its weight and its awkward balance as he shifted it in his hand.

"One more thing, Tarl. I want you to make every fifth throw lyin' on either your back or your belly. Many's the time I had to take an enemy down after bein' decked myself," Anton said with a grimace of recollection.

Tarl seriously doubted that the huge Anton had ever been knocked down in battle, but his stinging backside was an effective reminder that he was in no position to argue the point. Besides, Tarl had no business even thinking about arguing with a senior brother in the order, and anyhow, he knew Anton was right. Tarl shifted the heavy hammer back and forth in his hand several times, then raised it and stepped into his first throw. The big hammer spiraled crookedly through the air and fell to the ground a good six feet short of the tree Tarl was aiming at. Tarl jogged past the lead wagon to where the hammer had landed. Anton fell in step alongside the head wagon and left Tarl to his throwing.

It had been nearly two years since Tarl's eighteenth birthday, when he had taken his clerical vows in the Order of Tyr. He had been traveling with these eleven brothers in the faith for only eight weeks, but he believed he had learned more in that short time than he had in his previous twenty-two months at the temple in Vaasa.

Even on the road, Tarl continued to be tutored in his studies and devotionals, and the combat training was more intensive than anything to which he had previously been exposed. Brother Donal had drilled Tarl in techniques for guarding the flanks and rear when fighting with allies. Brother Sontag had taught him the use of the ball and chain, a grisly weapon almost as dangerous to use in practice as in battle. Tarl had received a nasty blow to the head in the middle of one of his own practice swings that left him with the utmost respect for Brother Sontag and his chosen weapon, and a headache as well. Even before today's instruction, Brother Anton had worked with Tarl for many days, in his usual gruff but effective manner, drilling him on the use of the shield as both a defensive and offensive weapon.