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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