Pool of Radiance - James M. Ward [15]
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.
Tarl looked again at the sword. It was a weapon like any other, but it was also unlike any other. The man who wielded it was driven by it. His movements were no longer completely of his own choosing. And Tarl knew the answer to the test: No one masters a sword. The sword masters the man, and a cleric of Tyr serves no master but Tyr. But knowing the answer alone would not save him from confinement