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asked, his wizened eyes glittering.
    “I—I guess I was pretty good. Of course, I didn’t have the kind of intensive training I’ve received from all of you with the other weapons.” Tarl was no longer looking at Brother Sontag. He felt that somehow everything he said was wrong. During the months since he’d taken his vows, he had asked more than once why clerics of Tyr couldn’t use swords. Each time the response had been silence or a gruff “You’ll know soon enough.” Swords were wonderful weapons, certainly easier to wield than any of the weapons favored by the clerics of Tyr. Tarl was deeply committed to Tyr and the order, but he had always assumed that the clerics’ refusal to use swords was some quirk of fanaticism of the type that seems to infiltrate almost any religious order.
    “We all wielded swords before we joined the order, Tarl. There are men among us who could teach you proficiency with a sword, if you wanted to learn.”
    “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