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?”
The big horse stamped and snorted, and Tarl flushed once more.
“Yes, of course,” said the woman, quickly pulling the panel up to cover herself as she realized the reason for the cleric’s embarrassment. She then turned to the horse. “Easy, Cerulean. I think we can trust this man.” She pointed toward a bedroll lashed securely to the horse’s back.
Tarl untied the bedroll, rolled a blanket from it, and moved close to drape it around the woman’s broad shoulders. As he did, he noticed her warm, perfumed scent, and as he stepped back, he prayed a silent thank-you to Tyr for not demanding abstinence from his clerics.
“I’m sorry. It seems I’ve forgotten my manners,” said the woman, turning demurely to face Tarl again. “I’m Shal … Shal Bal of Cormyr. I am a mage, formerly an apprentice to the great Ranthor.”
Tarl found himself staring again. He had never before seen a mage so long on physical prowess. Most, he assumed, found their way into the mentally taxing profession because they did not have the physical strength for other jobs, and once they became practicing magic-users, they damaged their bodies even further by repeatedly performing physically taxing magicks. This woman called Shal could be mistaken for a smith, or even a warrior. With practice, Tarl thought, she could probably wield a hammer as well as he, or perhaps even Anton.
As Tarl stood appraising Shal, she was doing likewise. The young cleric’s white hair did not match his youthful face. His steel-gray eyes were wise, and yet innocent at the same time. She had no real reason to trust him. She knew only what he had told her—that he was a warrior cleric of Tyr—but she had felt a strange bond from the minute he took her hands in his and healed her. She recalled, too, that Ranthor had always spoken highly of Tyrian clerics. He’d referred to them as “just” and “men you can trust at your back,” words he didn’t use lightly.
“Uh, Tarl,” Shal began awkwardly. “Do you know this town? Is there some place I could go to purchase some new leathers?”
“Of course … forgive me.” He looked tentatively at the horse. “Can we both ride that animal? I mean, I assume you do, but will he let me ride, too?”
“What do you say, Cerulean?” asked Shal, reaching for the saddle.
If I have my say I’d say either one of you is quite heavy enough.
Shal hadn’t really expected an answer, and as before, the horse’s mental communication took her by surprise. She was by no means used to the idea of the familiar sending messages directly to her brain.
“So what do you want me to do—ride while he walks?” she answered in annoyance.
Tarl looked at her quizzically. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. I was just answe—uh, talking to the horse.” She might have to explain about Cerulean to him sometime, she thought, but not now. She let Tarl cinch the saddle and help her up into it, then reached down and gave him a hand.
Oof! Double oats tonight, Mistress, especially after you made me do all that running for nothing.
Shal attempted a mental Shut up, but she could only guess that Cerulean had “heard” her when he snorted and bolted into a trot before he had even gotten off the docks and onto shore.
“Whoa, Cerulean! We’ll hold it to a walk for now,” Shal directed.
The horse obliged, but Shal couldn’t help but wonder if he was intentionally adding an extra jar to his previously smooth gait.
Tarl had only been in the city of Phlan for two days himself, but the brothers from the temple had been free with advice about the merchants in town, and he had done some exploring himself as he tried to learn more about the beasts and undead creatures living outside the walls of Civilized Phlan.
He directed Shal to a seamstress, a pleasant woman who had mended Tarl’s robes for him just the day before. When Shal let the blanket drop from her shoulders, the seamstress had to fight to keep from gawking. She couldn’t recall another woman she’d ever done a fitting for with a physique like Shal’s, and she certainly couldn’t remember anyone with such ridiculously fitted clothes. “Wha—what can I do for ya?” she finally spluttered.
Shal winced as she saw what she took to be the woman’s reaction to her size. Shal had been painfully aware, when she first stood next to Tarl, of how tall she had become, but his stares had seemed to be warm, even vaguely admiring. This woman was looking at her as if she were a freak. Shal almost wanted to break down and cry again, but she fought to keep her voice firm. “I need some clothes for the night—anything will do—and I’d like to pick up a full set of tailored leathers just as soon as you can have them ready.”
The woman looked at the rack of clothing behind her and shook her head slowly. There wasn’t a stitch of women’s clothing in her shop that would fit the woman standing in front of her. But then she had a sudden thought and went quickly to the back room. In a few moments she returned with a full set of leathers and leather armor. “I can’t fit you up very pretty, miss, but I do have this,” she said, holding out the outfit at arm’s length. “It was made for a man—a good-sized man. He was going to pay me for it when he finished a mission to Sokol Keep. I should’ve suspected he’d never come back. He was too adventurous for his own good….” Her voice trailed off, and Shal sensed that the woman must have cared for the man.
“Are—are you sure you want me to have these?” asked Shal.
“Sure I’m sure,” she said softly. “Besides, customers your size are few and far between.” The woman saw Shal bite her lip and quickly blurted, “No offense intended, miss. I’ll need to alter this some before you wear it. I mean, you’re tall and all, but you’ve got a trim waistline, and there’ll be … other adjustments to make. Isn’t that right, young man?” she said, turning to Tarl.
Tarl hadn’t taken his eyes off Shal since she had removed the blanket. Now his face burned red, and he grinned sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you’ll need to make some adjustments.”
“Fine lotta help you are!” scolded the woman, and she shooed Tarl out into the street, with an admonishment not to come back until she pulled the curtains open again.
The leather tunic and leggings were the softest things Shal had ever felt against her skin. She brushed one sleeve admiringly, and the seamstress cooed proudly, “Genuine chimera leather. It don’t come cheap, but it’ll last you a lifetime if you treat it right. Now, you stand still, and I’ll mark the places that need altering. I’ll be able to send you home with these tonight, if you’ve got eight silvers and a couple of hours.”
“I guess I have both and not much choice, regardless.” Shal watched the woman as she whisked about her. She was as slender as a praying mantis, and not a muscle marred her silky skin. Just hours ago, my figure was like that, Shal thought. Now I’m nothing but a giant, some kind of freak. I even tower over Tarl, and he must be over six feet tall….
“So, is that cleric your beau?” asked the seamstress nonchalantly, interrupting Shal’s thoughts.