Pool of Radiance - James M. Ward [14]
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