"We have been summoned from our plane of existence," the fiends hissed in unison. "Who are we to kill?"
"Whom I tell you to kill," Slayer spat.
Their eyes flared with hatred, but the spinagons bowed their heads in submission. They had no choice; Sirana controlled them with her powerful magic.
"All of Tyr's clerics must die!" Slayer bellowed to the crowd. "And we must capture the book that reveals the way to Tyr's hammer. Our reward will be untold riches." The huge man raised a fist on high. "Are you with me, thieves of Phlan?"
As one, the magically armored thieves raised their dark swords, eyes gleaming with curiously blank ferocity as they shouted their battle cries.
Anton and Tarl had sat Kern down on a hard marble bench. The young paladin was still dazed. Listle hovered nearby with an expression that was an equal mixture of concern, wonder, and amusement.
"I'm sorry you had to hear of Miltiades' prophecy like this, Son." Tarl gripped Kern's shoulder tightly. "Shal and I had planned to tell you next year."
Anton spoke in his rumbling baritone. "I'm afraid these dark times will force him to become a man a little sooner than you had wished, Tarl." The big cleric knelt to look directly in Kern's eyes. His shaggy mien was solemn. "I will not lie to you, Kern. The search for Tyr's hammer will be a perilous quest. Should you accept your destiny as Hammerseeker, there is a chance that you might never return to Phlan." Anton took a deep breath. "Never has a paladin-aspirant been given such a momentous task. But Tyr himself has chosen you, lad."
Kern's heart seemed to be fluttering inside his steel breastplate like a frightened sparrow. Why was he the one destined to find the Hammer of Tyr?
Anton rose to his feet. "Kern Desanea," the cleric intoned ceremoniously, "will you accept the title of Hammerseeker and quest for the lost Hammer of Tyr?"
Kern nodded jerkily, his face pale. A year ago, on the day he had become a paladin-aspirant, he had sworn to serve Tyr to the best of his abilities. Now Tyr had given him the chance to save Phlan. "I'll do my best, Patriarch Anton," he managed to say.
Tarl grinned proudly at his son, while Listle laughed.
"Hammerseeker, eh?" the elf remarked. "Not bad, Kern. Not bad at all. For an ogre-brained oaf, that is."
"Thanks, Listle," Kern replied wryly.
The temple's sole surviving paladin, a tall, handsome man with steel-blue eyes, approached. "Patriarch Anton, we bow to your wisdom," Rialad began in his sonorous voice. "However…"
Anton raised a shaggy eyebrow in curiosity. "However what, Rialad?" The Patriarch knew Rialad to be a skilled warrior whose loyalty to the temple was beyond reproach. Yet the paladin had an exaggerated opinion of himself and a penchant for questioning Anton's authority.
"The prophecy of Bane has spoken clearly. Someone must quest for the hammer."
"Not someone," Tarl interjected. "The only one-"
The square-chinned paladin interrupted. "Yes, I know, Brother Tarl," he said graciously. "However, I am this temple's last paladin of Tyr and the natural candidate to take up the quest. Rest assured, I will choose four of the temple's best warriors to accompany me as the prophecy instructs. No foes will dare stand before us." Rialad clenched a fist dramatically. "The hammer will be ours!"
Anton and Tarl both opened their mouths to protest, but Listle was faster than either of them.
"But you can't deny the prophecy!" The elf was positively seething. She had never cared for Sir Rialad's lofty, self-important demeanor. "Kern is destined to be the Hammerseeker."
Sir Rialad smiled indulgently at Kern. "Ah, yes," the paladin said, putting a fatherly arm around Kern's shoulders. "Kern is a brave lad. I have nothing but confidence that one day he will prove himself a paladin of great worth." He turned to address the others. "But surely the consummate paladin Miltiades could not have intended that a mere stripling quest for the hammer while the fate of Phlan hangs in the balance."
For some reason Sir Rialad's expression made the paladin-aspirant shudder, and Kern had to fight the urge to squirm out of the knight's grasp.
"But we dare not disregard Miltiades' prophecy!" Tarl said angrily.
"So you would send an inexperienced puppy into the face of peril?" Rialad retorted. The paladin spun on Kern. "You understand, don't you, aspirant? We must place the good of the temple above our own ambitions for greatness. That is the first lesson you must learn as a paladin. You see as well as I how foolish it would be for you to seek the hammer, do you not? I have a strength and experience you could never hope to match."
Kern shook his head dizzily. Sir Rialad's words made sense. He didn't like being called a puppy, but he knew that he was young and sadly inexperienced. He opened his mouth to reply as the paladin watched expectantly.
"Kern, don't!" Listle hissed in his ear.
He ignored the elf. The word yes formed itself on Kern's tongue.
He never had the chance to utter it.
The enchanted stones of the temple's portico thundered a warning chant. "Beware! Foes approach! Stand ready, clerics of Tyr! Beware!"
Kern and Listle exchanged a look of surprise. Instantly the clerics around them jumped into action.
"Seal the gates!" Anton bellowed.
Four clerics shut and barred the main gates. Never in the temple's history had the gates been breached, for underneath the ornately carved wood were thick plates of forge-hardened steel. The clerics of Tyr themselves were every bit as hardened beneath their kind and courteous manners. Ever battle-ready, they wore chain mail concealed beneath their gray robes.
Kern dashed up the steps leading to the battlements above the gates, Listle hot on his heels. Already clerics were readying piles of heavy stones and lighting fires under waiting caldrons of pitch. Kern gazed down the street that led up to the temple's gates.
"Something tells me we'd better get ready for a fight," Listle noted as a horde of men clad in ebony armor marched toward the temple, snaking through the street like a vast, dark serpent.
"You don't say," Kern said sarcastically.
"May Tyr grant us his protection!" Kern heard Anton shout below. The patriarch's voice was instantly echoed by a score of others. Suddenly, a shimmering blue nimbus sprang to life about the gates. The holy wards infused the portals, strengthening them with magical power.
Listle rummaged through the countless pouches hanging from her belt, readying the mystical components necessary for her spells, while Kern hefted his battlehammer. From his vantage on the wall he could survey all the preparations. Half the temple's clerics had mounted the wall, ready to drop stones and fiery pitch through the machicolations when the enemy arrived. The remainder had gathered in the courtyard below, poised to fight hand to hand should the enemy somehow manage to breach the walls. A few of the older clerics, Tarl among them, sequestered themselves inside the temple's main hall. There they wove spells of protection around the temple's entrance, preparing a last stand in the event the clerics were forced to retreat into the temple itself.
A cleric, whom Kern recognized as Sister Briatha, approached. Before he could say anything, she touched him on the forehead and whispered a brief prayer. Suddenly Kern felt a warm wave of strength flow through his limbs, and a flame of courage ignite in his heart. He barely had time to react before Briatha had moved on to the preoccupied Listle.