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full strength of your torso is packed behind your throw. That way your arm snaps forward with the force of a released spring, and your hammer does the damage ya need it to.” Anton took the smith’s hammer from Tarl and dropped to the ground to demonstrate. The big man moved with a speed and ease that belied his giant stature. True to his instructions, his arm snapped like a spring, sending the hammer forward with a force Tarl hadn’t realized even Anton could manage from his back. When the hammer thwacked into a nearby tree, the entire length of the trunk split, as if it had been struck by an axe.
    It took all his concentration, but many tries later, Tarl felt the tightly wound tension and powerful release of the snap that Brother Anton had spoken of. Tarl’s throw missed its mark by several inches, but he knew he would never forget the technique, the feel of power in that throw. He also knew that he had been lacking that energy even when he had thrown from a standing position. He continued his practice with renewed enthusiasm all through the afternoon and into the evening, feeling a growing sense of pride and accomplishment as his hammer thrummed through the air with newfound speed and energy.
    Though he was no giant like Anton, Tarl was tall—easily six feet—and strong. Nevertheless, by the time the brothers stopped for the night, Tarl’s arms, shoulders, and back ached from the repeated use of previously underworked muscles. When Brother Sontag sent him for water in the morning, Tarl could barely hoist the yoke to his shoulders. At Anton’s suggestion, Tarl heated a poultice and spread it between his shoulder blades. Anton instructed the young cleric to lie down on his bedroll, and he massaged the tarlike substance into Tarl’s back and shoulder blades with his huge hands. The medication from the poultice quickly spread a penetrating, rejuvenating warmth through his aching muscles.
    “You’ve made the mistake of all young men,” Brother Sontag said, sitting down beside Tarl and Anton. Sontag was the eldest of the clerics in the group and, as such, its leader. He often had a word of advice for Tarl or even some of the other brothers. “You let a single success possess you. For a day, the hammer was your master. When you go back and practice again, you will be the master.”
    “You said the same thing about the ball and chain, Brother Sontag. Do all weapons punish us before we gain mastery over them?”
    “Yes, Tarl, they do—and because you understand that, I believe you are ready for the Test of the Sword.”
    Anton’s face paled noticeably. “Tarl’s just a pup—barely twenty, if I can count. What’s the rush, Brother Sontag?”
    Sontag waved a hand toward Anton to silence him. “How many weapons have you mastered, Tarl?” Brother
    Sontag stared directly into the youth’s eyes as he asked the question.
    Tarl thought for a moment. He knew of the Test of the Sword—that it was the final challenge he must face before becoming a full-fledged cleric in the Order of Tyr—but the nature of the test was a secret. For all he knew, Sontag’s question could even be part of the test. Tarl sat up, squared his shoulders, and returned the elderly cleric’s piercing gaze. “I can better my use of any weapon, Brother Sontag, but you yourself have told me I have mastered the ball and chain and that I will master the hammer. I believe, then, by my feelings, that I can also say I have mastered the shield.”
    “And the sword, Tarl? Have you mastered the sword?” Sontag prompted.
    Tarl laughed nervously. “Of course not. The clerics of Tyr don’t carry swords. There’s no one here who can teach—”
    “Wrong, Tarl. You knew that was wrong before you even spoke the words. Didn’t you wield a sword before you took your vows?”
    “Sure, I used a sword,” Tarl answered self-consciously, aware that Brothers Donal, Adrian, Seriff, and the rest had gathered round to listen.
    “And did you master it?” Sontag