James Ward: Pool of Radiance

"I do want to learn, Brother Sontag. Swords are fine weapons. It's a shame the warriors of Tyr don't learn to use them." Tarl's heart pounded with both enthusiasm and trepidation as he launched into the argument he had rehearsed mentally a dozen times. "A man with a sword can easily disarm a man with a ball and chain, numchucks, or a throwing hammer, just by the proper timing of his thrust. And a kill with a sword is clean. There's no need for bludgeoning-"

Brother Sontag waved his hand at Tarl as he had at Anton a few moments earlier, then stood and walked toward the lead wagon. The clerics that were gathered round parted to let him pass. None spoke or moved to his aid, even as he returned with a large leather bag that was obviously very heavy. "Can I help you with that?" asked Tarl, dropping the poultice as he stood and held out a hand toward Sontag.

"No." It was Anton who answered the question. "It's Brother Sontag's job. He's the oldest among us."

"What's his job?" asked Tarl. He dropped his hand to his side and backed up several steps, feeling once again that he could say nothing right.

"To administer the test," said Anton. "When a cleric of Tyr can't give the test anymore, he retires."

Sontag untied the bag and pulled out a long silver cord. "Stand still," he said to Tarl coldly. The old cleric placed one end of the cord on the ground several feet from Tarl and then proceeded to lay it in a perfect circle around the young cleric.

Tarl felt a chill run up his spine as Sontag closed the circle. He felt trapped, though he knew that was ridiculous. He could step over the cord at any time. Or could he? For some reason, he couldn't, but he didn't know why. "Isn't anyone going to tell me what's expected of me?"

"You can ask all the questions you want once the test begins," Anton said.

Sontag pulled two swords from the bag, a long sword and a short sword, and placed them at the edge of the circle. He did the same with two more, a broadsword and a two-handed sword, and then with two more, one a jousting sword and the other a fencing sword. They were all fine weapons of the highest quality. Tarl felt compelled to touch and lift each one. When he was through, he stepped back to the center of the circle.

All the clerics except Sontag formed a circle around the cord, then faced Tarl and stepped back three paces. Tarl watched, curiously, as they rolled up their sleeves and leggings. Was this being done to intimidate him? Tarl wondered, noting the many gruesome battle scars that marred the skin of each man.

Brother Sontag picked up his ball and chain and stood within the circle of men but still outside the cord. "Choose your weapon, Tarl," said the old cleric. "You must kill me before you leave that circle-unless you pass the test."

"I–I don't want to kill you!" Tarl shouted, his voice breaking. Sontag slammed the ball inside the circle a scant two inches from Tarl's feet. "Choose your weapon or die in the circle!"

Tarl leaped back and made a move to jump over the cord. Sontag swung again, hard and low. The chain wrapped around Tarl's leg, and Sontag jerked back hard. Tarl slammed down on his left side, jamming his elbow on the rocky ground. Pain such as he had never known surged through his body, and Tarl cursed Tyr and all the other gods as he struggled to free his leg from the chain before Sontag could jerk it again. Tarl grappled for the pile of swords, then rose and turned on Sontag in fury as he got a firm grip on the broadsword.

"I'll kill you!" Tarl screamed. The sword felt natural in his hand. He lunged forward and lashed out at Sontag, rage and pain guiding his movements. He felt the sword bite deep into the flesh just beneath Sontag's breastplate. Sontag faltered for a moment, and Tarl tried once more to break out of the circle, but Sontag clipped him across his left shoulder with the ball, and Tarl fell hard inside the bounds of the cord. Hot jets of pain pulsed from his shoulder through the rest of his body, and he jumped up and lashed out wildly at Sontag. He lunged repeatedly, each time following the point of the sword with his body. Again and again Sontag dodged Tart's thrusts or deftly deflected them aside with his weapon.

Furious, Tarl reached back to exchange his weapon for the long sword, but for some reason he couldn't shake the broadsword from his hand. "What is this!?" Tarl shrieked. "Why can't I change weapons?" Terrified that Sontag would take advantage of his awkward position, Tarl jerked the broadsword back into place in front of him.

But Sontag was not rushing toward him. Instead, he stood at the edge of the circle, blood seeping through the folds of his tunic, but at the ready nonetheless.

"The choice ya made was final, Tarl," Anton's voice boomed from behind him. "That broadsword is your weapon of choice for the test."

"I chose nothing!" Tarl yelled in response. "Look at Brother Sontag! I didn't want harm to come to him, but did I have a choice? I can't even leave this bloody circle without killing him. What's that supposed to prove?"

"Ya did have a choice, Tarl. Ya didn't have to hurt him. The point-"

"What kind of choice was that, Brother Anton? That I could let him kill me? That I could 'die in the circle' as he said?" Tarl was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The sword felt alive in his hand. He wanted to lash out at Sontag again and again, to stab, to hurt him as he was hurt, to relieve the tension building inside himself. His every muscle was tensed, and he was ready to spring on the old man at any moment.

"One question at a time, lad," Anton said quietly. "You'll die in the circle only if ya don't pass the test. You'll die at Brother Sontag's hands only if ya try to leave the circle without passin' the test."

Tarl tipped his head back slightly and let his shoulders drop. "I'll die in the circle only if I don't pass the test? I'll die at Brother Sontag's hands only if I try to leave the circle without passing the test? What's that supposed to mean? And you, Anton-why are you the only one talking to me?"

"When you asked me what was expected of ya, you were choosin' me as your tutor for the test. The others are answerin' the questions ya haven't asked yet with their bared arms an' legs."

Keeping a wary eye on Brother Sontag, Tarl glanced around at the men surrounding him. As before, he noted their many scars, but this time he saw one thing more- that each man, including Anton, bore one scar that stood out from the rest-a scar with a silver cast to it.

"As my tutor, you'll answer any question?"

"Aye, as long as you can't answer it yourself."

"I think I know, Brother Anton, what I need to do to pass the test, but I'm not sure I understand. Why don't the clerics of Tyr use swords?"

"Before the test, Brother Sontag was askin' about the weapons you'd mastered… When can ya say you've mastered a weapon?"

Tarl thought for a moment, then answered Anton.

"When you are confident in the technique required to use a weapon, you've mastered it. That doesn't mean you can't improve on your technique, just that you know it. But what-"

"And are ya master of the sword?" Anton prompted.

Again Tarl reflected. He could thrust, jab, stab, slice, parry. What more techniques could be applied with a sword? And yet somehow he didn't feel the same control he felt with the hammer or the ball and chain. He shook his head. "No, but I don't understand why not."

"What did you feel when you dug that blade into your teacher and fellow brother?"

The answer made Tarl sick. He looked down at the sword in his hand and then over at Brother Sontag. The older brother was standing stoically, his hand pinned to his side in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood, Tarl had come to love Sontag despite his occasional gruffness. Sontag had counseled Tarl through many of the tougher stages of his studies. And now this brother and friend was wounded, perhaps even dying, at Tarl's own hand.