Pool of Radiance by James M. Ward, Jane Cooper Hong Read Free Book Online

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 to the circle. He must do what he knew each of his brothers had done to complete the test. “The sword is not my master!” shouted Tarl, and he swung the blade of the broadsword down on his thigh. Blood pulsed from the gash, and Tarl screamed out in agony to right his own wrong. “Help… help Brother Sontag!” Tarl’s last memory was of the brothers who had been standing silent around the circle rushing to Brother Sontag’s side.
    Tarl awoke to Brother Anton’s voice, bellowing, “Are ya goin’ to sleep till we get to Phlan, lad? Wake up! Don’t go supposin’ that just because you’re a full-fledged cleric now there’s no chores important enough for ya!”
    “By the gods, I hurt all over!” Pain pounded through Tarl’s body, from his jammed elbow to the self-inflicted wound on his thigh. Every bump of the wagon sent fresh, white-hot spasms coursing through his body.
    “Now, that’s gratitude! I spend the night a-patchin’ and a-prayin’, and you complain as though ya ain’t been healed.”
    “No disrespect intended, Brother Anton, but if this is healed, I’m glad Tyr spared me from the hours since the test!”
    Brother Sontag’s head appeared between the edge of the wagon and the curtain that shielded Tarl’s cot from the sun. Tarl struggled to a sitting position and tried to speak, to apologize, but Sontag raised a hand to silence him. “That’ll be enough bellyaching, Brother Tarl. Look at me—three times your age, and with a wound that would down a horse. Do you see me complaining? Brother Donal just spotted the poison river that leads south into Phlan. Can’t afford to have a strong young cleric like you in bed when we run up against the riffraff that’s rumored to inhabit this area.”
    For two years, Tarl had been studying and training for the chance to serve Tyr in battle, to contribute to the establishment and expansion of a new temple. He was the only one in the group without actual battle experience. This finally was his chance to prove himself to the men who had taught him so much. Tarl threw back the bedding, stood up, and vaulted over the side of the wagon with all the exuberance of his age… and crumpled helplessly to the ground. Yesterday’s agony returned in full force as the self-inflicted wound on his leg reopened from the impact.
    “You’ll be limpin’ for a lifetime if ya keep that up!” yelled Anton, and