Fredrick Hemmington snapped the reigns again, and the horses picked up the pace. They were just about to the top of the hill, and the castle was entirely in view. The horses were either shying away from the stone monster ahead of them, or the cart they pulled was getting too heavy. Fredrick was willing to bet it was a combination of both.
The path leveled off as they ascended the last incline, and Fredrick took time to examine the castle. It did look like a monster, too, with half-crumpled spires climbing into the sky like teeth or talons. The base of the castle was not vast but intimidating nonetheless. Each block of granite that formed its main wall looked gigantic and forced Fredrick to look back down the hill to appreciate how far each of the blocks must have been carried. The McKeeners had not wanted any unwanted guests.
Of course, since the castle had been built so well to keep things out, it had also proven to be exceptionally good at keeping things in. The plague had struck the castle over two centuries ago and had taken every life that did not flee and many of those that did. When the surrounding towns saw the blistered refugees seeking help, their faces horribly contorted by the sickness, mages were called on to repel them. Once the bodies were identified and the mages confident that they could counter the plague, a troupe had gone up to the castle to see what they could do.
All they found were bodies. The mages spent weeks ridding the castle of the evil aura that seemed to permeate from the thick walls, and even after they had declared it clean, no sane citizen would dare step foot in it. "It is perfectly safe," the head mage had said, hoping to lure a prominent family into the well-defended fort and maybe garnering some compensation for making it available.
"If it is so safe, then you live there," was the usual response. So they did.
It was no longer called the McKeener stronghold but the Mount Mckeener Magic Market. Fredrick led his horse to the stable where dozens of carts were parked, their owners inside shopping. "It's huge," came a small voice beside him. Fredrick looked to see his son Alex gaping up in awe at the castle. The youngest member of the Hemmington family had slept through most of the trip, which was fine, for there wasn't much to see, but when the steady rhythm of the cart stopped, he awoke with a start.
Fredrick tossed a coin to one of the stable boys to ensure his horses got water and hay and then helped his son from the cart. "Now, remember," he said sternly, "I said you could come along as long as you don't touch anything. There are a lot of tricks and games in here, and I don't want any son of mine to be fooled by them."
Alex stood up a little taller at the charge, full of the Hemmington pride that his father always talked about. He wouldn't be fooled. He wouldn't touch anything. He would just watch. That resolve lasted about 20 seconds.
At the entry to the market, where the main portcullis once barred entrance, a magician was playing with fire. He swallowed it, blew it out of his mouth, snapped small flames to life on his fingers, and even made a few fireworks that looked like butterflies. Alex left his father's side and ran right up to the entertainer, wholly entranced.
Fredrick quickened his pace after his son. The magician noticed Alex's attention and bent to pick up a small twig from the ground. With the young boy watching intently, the magician slowly pulled the twig through a clenched fist as if he were trying to wring water from it. Then, he snapped his fingers on the end of the twig, and a small flame came to life.
He bent down to hand it to Alex. "I'm sorry," Fredrick said, walking up to them quickly, "but we aren’t looking to buy anything from you. If you would leave my boy—"
"Nonsense," the magician said with a haughty tone. "I ask you for no money. I simply wish to give the boy a gift to lighten his face."
Fredrick looked at his son and saw him holding the flame up as if it were magical. It looked like it was just a twig on fire, and he was about to say as much when the magician spoke up again. "That twig will never burn up. The flame will continue until it is extinguished, but the wood will never be consumed."
Fredrick looked closely at the twig and saw that beneath the flame, the wood did not seem to be charred in the least. "I have a large woodpile back home if you're not too busy," Fredrick said.
"And I thought you weren't interested in buying anything from me." The magician's tone dripped with superiority.
Fredrick growled at how easily he had been drawn in. He had just lectured his son about not getting caught in any traps or games, and here he was, taken by a simple parlor trick. "Give the twig back to him," he said firmly to his son.
Though Alex did not wish to give up his burning twig, he had learned long ago not to defy his father when he assumed the tone he now used. He handed the tiny torch back to the magician. The man took it, and with another snap of his fingers, the entire twig burst into flames and was incinerated within a second, leaving nothing but a poof of ash. "Ah pity," he said and turned to the next visitors.
Fredrick pulled his son into the castle’s central courtyard, and whatever remorse Alex felt about losing his twig disappeared in seconds once he saw the shops inside. The chambers surrounding the square were full of magical shops selling everything from potions to poisons. In front of each shop was a magical display much like the one they had just seen. Jugglers worked five balls into the air at once and then suddenly stopped using their hands, the balls continuing the cycle on their own. Metalworkers bent iron without using a hammer or anvil and then invited onlookers to try. Talking birds told people stories, dough cooked itself into bread, and gold coins flowed from what looked like an empty bucket.
Many people came with no intention of buying anything at all and just wanted a show, but they invariable ended up leaving with something. Love potions and good luck trinkets were the easiest to move, but more powerful and valuable things were also to be bought.
Along with pranksters and con artists trying to make quick fortunes, there were also serious vendors at this market. They were on the upper level, off the balcony that ringed the courtyard. They had no ground in front of their shops to advertise, so they needed to count on the genuine nature of their products. Fredrick allowed his son a few moments to take in the sights of the courtyard and then led him up to the balcony.
They passed a few shops of no interest and stopped in front of the shop Fredrick was there for: Garem's Golems. At Mount Mckeener Magic Market, alliteration was the law of the land.
In the reception area stood a few samples of Garem's work. Tall brass and iron behemoths stood as if on guard, and Fredrick got suddenly nervous. He felt they would come to life and tear him apart if he did something wrong. Alex was frightened too and did not need his father's warning to know he shouldn't touch anything.
"Do you have an appointment?"
The voice belonged to a young boy, maybe 15 or 16, at least five years older than Alex. Fredrick turned to face him and remembered the lad from the other day in town when he had set up the meeting. The boy recognized him too. "Earl Hemmington, is it not?" Fredrick nodded. "Yes, Garem is expecting you."
The boy visited the local towns and met with anyone interested in his employer's wares. Garem was a busy man, and it was not usually possible to meet with him without an appointment. The boy led Fredrick and Alex down a small corridor and into a cozy office that had a view out the back of the castle and down the mountain.
"Earl Hemmington," Garem, a portly bearded man, rose from behind his desk and extended his hand, "it is good to meet you. How may I be of service?"
Fredrick took the hand and a seat, happy this mage didn't dress himself up with the robes and frills his associates downstairs preferred. He looked more like a blacksmith and thinking back to what he did, that made sense.
"I wish to purchase a golem, of course."
"Of course," Garem echoed with a laugh, "but there are many kinds."
"I am not well-versed in these matters," Fredrick admitted.
"Few are. Let's start with what you would like it to do."
Fredrick nodded. He had heard many good things about this man and trusted not to be cheated. Garem really couldn't afford to be dishonest. It was only the wealthy who could afford his services, and if he cheated someone of nobility, not only would they seek revenge, but his reputation would be ruined overnight.
"My son," he took a glance down at Alex and clarified, "my oldest son is starting to make quite a name for himself at some of the local tournaments. He's won jousting matches and sword contests in more cities than I can count and is amassing quite a trophy collection. As well, my wife seems to fancy more and more jewelry as the years go by and has also gathered herself quite a collection. Myself, I have done well in horse-trading, and my coffers seem to be ever bursting no matter how much I give to charity. Right now, my wealth is spread throughout my estate, and I fear I will soon be the target of thieves if I don't consolidate and protect it."
Garem nodded as if he had heard it a thousand times before, and for good reason. "How serious is the threat?" Fredrick looked confused. "I mean, is there high crime in your area? You live just outside Gilfrim if I'm not mistaken. Has the thieving guild there turned its eyes toward you?"
Fredrick shook his head. "I don't know. I just thought it would be prudent."
"So, you probably aren't shopping that aggressively, fair enough. Do you actually want it to fight?"
Fredrick looked confused. "Isn't that what golems do? They destroy anything that violates their treasure, right?"
"In theory," Garem agreed, "but if you are a thief and you know what a golem can do, and you see one guarding a chest, are you still going to try and open that chest?"
"Probably not," Fredrick agreed.
"The golems you saw as you walked in are not enchanted. They will not come to life no matter what you did to them, but I bet your son didn't touch them, did he?"
Fredrick didn't need to answer that rhetorical question. "So, what risks do I run in getting a 'fake' golem."
"Well," Garem started, "if your thief is accompanied by a wizard or has a protection spell cast on him that he knows how to read, they will be able to sense that there is no danger coming from the golem. Or if he has any elven blood in him or is possession of any number of charms used to disarm traps, they might be able to sense it. This is why I asked what level of thief you are protecting from. The lower-class thief won't have any of this. And the really low class might not recognize a golem and might just think it is a neat statue and continue with the theft."
"I think I better go with the real thing," Fredrick decided.
"Fair enough. I'm just trying to save you some coin. Of course, I make a wide variety of golems. For what you are talking about, I'm guessing—"
Garem was cut off by his servant in the hall. "You can't go in there, sir; Garem is busy with a client. You need to make an appointment. You can't just—" The sickening crack of metal on bone ended the boy’s rant, and soon after, the door opened.
Garem stood suddenly to continue the admonishment where his servant had been cut off, but his voice was caught in his throat. The man stood tall in the doorway, closer to six and a half feet than six. He was dressed in a black robe covering chainmail that looked like it had been dipped in ink, glistening as if it were still wet. His hood was thrown back, revealing a hawkish face with black eyes and topped with the whitest hair Garem had ever seen. The man looked like he was only 25 years old and 100 at the same time.
He wore a massive sword on his hip, the pommel of which was clearly visible under his cloak as he turned to look at the Hemmingtons. "You were just leaving." His voice was barely more than a whisper, but it seemed to fill the whole room.
Fredrick Hemmington was a noble, an Earl of some regard, and did not threaten easily, but he gathered his son and left the room as if the plague had returned to the castle. And as he closed the door behind him, leaving Garem alone with the black visitor, the merchant wasn't so sure it hadn't.
"I require a golem."
"Uh, well," Garem cleared his throat and tried to act as if nothing was amiss, "you've come to the right place. Please, have a seat." He motioned to one of the chairs just recently vacated.
The man in black did not move to take a seat but instead unsheathed his sword and propped it on the floor in front of him. It was long enough that as his palms rested on the pommel, the tip of the sword on the floor, his hands were halfway up his chest. Garem took notice of the blade. It was deeply serrated on either side, looking like many arrowheads stacked on top of each other. It looked deadly enough, but Garem didn't see how the blade could be removed from a victim once they were skewered with it. He hoped he never found out.
"I have many types of golems; perhaps you could tell me what you need it for and—"
"I require a flesh golem."
"A flesh golem?" Garem was not happy. Not only was it the weakest type of golem he made, but he hated dealing with enchanted flesh. "Are you sure? I mean, I have this adamantium supplier trying to unload on me right now. I can make you a great deal—"
The man in black leaned forward, putting more weight on his sword. He hardly moved more than three inches, but suddenly Garem felt as if their faces were just about touching. "I require a flesh golem," he said again, in the same harsh whisper. "You are to make it look as human as possible. Seven feet tall. No more than 350 pounds. All of it solid muscle."
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"Looking for a bodyguard?" Garem chuckled, the joke being that it didn't appear this man needed to be guarded against anything.
"I require it for a tournament."
"A fighting tournament?" Garem asked. "Cause, my golems aren't much in the way of fighting. I mean, they're indestructible, and they like to 'Crush, crush, kill, kill,’ but if you’re looking for a real fighter, they don't have minds to learn moves and maneuvers. Are you sure—"
The man leaned closer still, and Garem shut up. "You talk too much. Can you give me what I require?"
"As I said, I can't program it to do much more than swing its arms."
"I can."
"Oh, really," Garem was half-intrigued and half-relieved. He hoped this stranger wouldn't ask him to do the impossible, but at the same time, if this man in black knew how to make a golem actually fight with weapons and technique, Garem might be able to learn something.
"How long do you need?"
"One, no, two weeks. I can have it for you in two weeks."
"I will return in three. I better not be disappointed." With that, he turned to leave.
"Wait," Garem called. "What shall I call you?"
The man paused, wondering if he should really answer the question, for Garem would surely never confuse him with anyone else. "You may call me Styne." With that, the man left the room and closed the door behind him.
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Two guards stood at the gate to Silverymoon, watching the approaching troupe with interest. There looked to be six party members, and as they drew closer, their identities became clear.
The most prominent was the knight. He sat atop his tremendous horse like a living statue, tall and regal. His full plate glistened in the sun, calling attention to himself as if he were a lighthouse on a cliff. Beside and slightly behind him rode a second traveler, much smaller and dressed colorful gowns and sitting sidesaddle. Compared to the size of the knight, the woman seemed almost a child, and since the two guards were familiar with most paladins' marriage customs, they assumed she probably was.
Walking on the horses’ right were two more members of the group. The taller of the two was dressed in a baggy shirt and taunt pants. It also appeared he was playing the lute. As they got closer, the twanging of the instrument and the joyful sound of the bard's song identified him clear enough. The other, a squire to be sure, was carrying a banner. On this calm afternoon, the standard hung limply from the pole, but from the colors, the guards guessed it belonged to the Order of the Thunder Blade.
Without that guess, it would have been nearly impossible for the guards to know what the other two squires were doing. It appeared they were carrying a large pole, akin to what hunters might use to bring in a wild boar after a successful hunt. This pole seemed large enough to carry a grizzly, but it was bare. Even after a stray breeze finally picked up the banner and let the guards know they had guessed right, they still couldn't believe that the behemoth pike the two lads carried over their shoulders was a sword.
The knight held up his hand when the troupe was still 50 yards from the gate, and they all stopped. He dismounted and relieved the two squires of their burden. The guards gawked. Once attached to his back, even at an angle, the sword’s pommel stuck up above his head while the tip just barely hung above the ground. This would naturally be impressive on anyone, but this knight stood easily six and a half feet.
The two guards stood at attention as the group walked the rest of the way, save the young women whose horse was led on by one of the two squires no longer carrying the sword. It was traditional for the bard, or maybe one of the squires, to announce a prominent knight's arrival at the city gates, but the knight himself was the one who approached and spoke.
"I am Sir Toreance Willhiem," he said, drawing his sword as he spoke. He pulled it over his shoulder, and the sheath rotated, so the blade was drawn parallel to the ground. This was a necessary feature, for no man alive had an arm long enough to pull the sword straight up. "I come from the south on a mission of great importance. I am here to see Lady Alustriel, and I wish to . . ."
He went on about what he wanted and why he was so vital that he should receive an audience without having arranged one in advance. The guards were barely listening. Their eyes were glued to the sword, the Thunder Blade. The blade was six feet if it was an inch and too wide for most men to curl their fingers around. It had to weigh over a hundred pounds, but the casual way the paladin held it aloft made it look no heavier than a rapier. Most blades were balanced with equal weight above and below the crosspiece so that they would swing about their center of mass. This was impossible with this blade, but looking at the massive pommel, it was apparent the makers of the sword had tried.
When Sir Toreance Willhiem had finished his litany, one of the guards called for a runner from within the guardhouse on the other side of the gate, and soon the knight's procession was making its way through the main streets of Silverymoon. The group drew quite a crowd of onlookers as they walked, Toreance with his blade held high and the banner-carrying-squire waving his flag back and forth to make up for the lack of wind. The bard was in full song about how many foes Sir Toreance Willhiem had slain and would slay in the future.
Carrying an unsheathed weapon, especially one the size of the Thunder Blade, was against city ordinance, but no one had the gall to tell Toreance to put it away. No one, that is, until they reached the central palace. Lady Alustriel was waiting for them at the gate. "Put that tree chopper away."
Toreance grunted a bit at the remark. "This is the magnificent Thunder Blade. It has slain hundreds, nay, thousands. Why just on the long trek to this city, I killed a score of orcs and two dozen trolls. It is not for chopping trees."
Lady Alustriel did not smile. And she was not nearly as impressed as the onlookers at the casual way he held the massive sword. She knew of the Order of the Thunder Blade, and perhaps the only thing they were better at than fashioning their famous sword was fashioning the magic gauntlets this knight wore. It looked like Toreance moved it about as if it were a dagger, but Alustriel doubted it even weighed that much. A child could lift it if he had the gloves.
"Put it away," she said calmly.
Toreance grunted again but sheathed his sword. Alustriel had a good guess why he was here, and she didn't like it. For starters, she didn't like the Order of the Thunder Blade as a whole. No one could deny the benefit of having a war-hungry group of paladins living in the wilderness laying waste to the goblin and giant kind in the area, and they were very good at what they did. But a typical order of paladins would pursue a group of goblins that had attacked a town, kill the creatures, and then return to the town to help heal and rebuild. They would empty their coffers in an act of charity to help the damaged town and would not leave until they knew the townspeople were safe again. The Order of the Thunder Blade had the killing part down, but they left out the rest.
Toreance had mentioned killing trolls on his way up to the city. Alustriel knew the path they should have taken, and the trollmoors were a good day out of the way. The fact that he had taken his troupe, consisting of three boys, a girl, and a defenseless bard, to the edge of the trollmoors, just so he could have some sport, showed what kind of reckless attitude the Order of the Thunder Blade encouraged.
"I am here for the tournament," Toreance said, confirming Alustriel's guess. "May we go in and speak?"
Alustriel motioned the way toward her palace, hiding a smile at the stumbling gate of the paladin. With the sword out of his magic gloves and on his back, Toreance was feeling the full weight. He hadn't just carried it unsheathed through town for show, though that was definitely part of it, but it really was too heavy for anyone to manage without the gloves.
Toreance was the only one that entered the palace. The rest of his group tended to the horses and went about setting up lodging for the duration of their stay. Alustriel was not fond of the knight, but she would make sure his troupe was cared for. They would wait for his return, but unless Alustriel were greatly mistaken, Toreance would not be coming back, and she would make sure they had an escort back to the order.
"It seems odd that you would come all the way up here on such a task," Alustriel asked once they were both seated and waited upon. Toreance had the sword propped up against the wall. "I mean, your priests should have been able to handle the transportation spell easily enough."
"I, uh, we," Toreance stuttered. The most honest shortcoming of the Order of the Thunder Blade is that they did not have any affiliation with any deity. Such union was necessary for entrance into the tournament. "Our priests are too busy healing our wounded and preparing spells for battle to deal with, uh . . ." Toreance was about to insult the type of magic required, but that would in turn insult Alustriel, and he held his tongue.
"Of course," Alustriel said, taking some small pleasure in his discomfort. The humor didn't last long, though, for a definite shadow was hanging over this meeting. It was the shadow of death. She thought about denying this knight access to the tournament, for she felt it would be a death sentence, but he did look like an incredible fighter. He was as big and robust as a barbarian though almost assuredly trained in the classic sword style instead of the hack and slash ways of most barbarian tribes. Images of Wulfgar came to mind. Alustriel's face fell at the thought of the deceased fighter. Though even if he were still alive and wielding his fabulous hammer, it would not compare with the weapon of this knight. If Alustriel was going to send anyone, Toreance was probably the best choice.
If she denied him passage, he would throw a fit, going on about pride, honor, and what he was entitled to. The tournament was held every 250 years, and the Order of the Thunder Blade had sent a representative to the past three. None of those knights had returned, and new blades had to be fashioned, but Alustriel doubted that knowledge would in any way restrain Toreance's eagerness.
She was then left with the task of finding a higher being to sponsor him, which shouldn't be too hard. Several neutral, war-loving deities would grant this knight sponsorship. As Alustriel explained what would be required of Toreance, she couldn't help but wonder who she would send if it were her choice. The only name that came to mind was a thousand miles away, sailing the sword coast. Toreance would have to do.
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Karl and Jack walked into the tavern, looking curiously around at the assortment of patrons. From the little they had seen since entering this town, the people inside looked like a collection of what they had already seen walking the street. It didn't look like the chosen one was here.
There was a group of four young people sitting around a table in the middle of the room. The two young boys tried to convince the two girls of something, and the girls found it humorous. There was an old fighter by the sidewall, drinking his ale and thinking he might get called into action at any time, for he wore rusted armor and had a sword close by. There was a cloaked stranger in the corner, sipping a drink and wishing for nothing but to be ignored. There was a group of ruffians on the other side of the room, looking like they might start a fight at any moment. There were middle-aged men playing cards and sipping drinks. And there were two widows eyeing the men from across the room.
None of the patrons caught the attention of the two men who had just entered, so they kept walking to the bar. Karl and Jack were monks, which was rather obvious from their bald heads and brown robes. They were on a mission for their monastery to find the chosen one, but in the meantime, a little ale wouldn't hurt.
They had been sitting at the bar for ten minutes and were now working on their second mugs when four men entered the tavern. The two monks turned to regard the new arrivals and thought they had reached the end of their search. At the head of the group walked a powerful man, just over six feet and muscled like a dwarf. An axe swung casually from his waist as he moved fluidly over the floor to the bar. His three friends walked behind him, letting everyone know who was in charge of the group. His name was Darien, and he was a well-known mercenary in these parts. He sat at the bar right next to Jack without saying a word.
Jack and Karl exchanged glances. "See if he has the mark," Karl insisted.
Jack nodded and turned back to Darien. With the innocence and naiveté that comes from growing up in a monastery, Jack reached out and casually brushed the big man's long brown hair away from the side of his face.
"What the hell," Darien said, turning suddenly, batting Jack's hand away and standing up. Instantly his three friends fanned out, surrounding the monks. "What are you about?"
"Pardon me, sir," Jack said, not realizing his dire situation. "I just wish to look at your ear."
"My ear?" the man asked incredulously. He was going to beat these two men into respecting him, but he had never started a fight over his ears before. "What kind of fetish do you have? Hey everyone," he said to the rest of the tavern, all of which were riveted on this confrontation, "it looks like we have a couple of deviant monks here?"
Darien turned his attention back to Jack. "I don't like monks. Especially perverted ones." His hand snaked out and grabbed Jack by the throat. Karl realized for the first time they were in trouble, but as he rose from his bench, he found two of Darien's friends standing behind him. He turned back to look at Jack still with his neck in a chokehold.
"I'll show you what I do with perverted monks."
"Please, not in front of everyone."
The voice came from Darien's left, away from the bar. "Stay out of this," he said, but as he did, it registered that there was something different about the speaker's voice. He turned to look and saw the cloaked stranger from the corner standing there, the hood down revealing long blonde hair.
The woman smiled at his shocked expression. "If you want to get intimately physical with this man, that's your own prerogative," she said, "but, please, not in front of everyone."
"Oh, I'm going to get physical with him," he growled, "and everyone is going to watch." Laughter from the other members of the tavern brought the slow-witted man to his senses, and he realized both what this woman had said and then what he had.
Darien released the monk and turned on the woman. "What did you say?"
"I said if you want to get intimate with him, that's your business, but don't do it here."
"Why you," he growled, coming on hard. Despite his anger, he was a little restrained because she was a woman. She solved that problem by striking first. The stiffened fingers of her right hand shot out faster than a viper's strike, catching the man just under the adam's apple. He gagged and stumbled back, grabbing at his throat trying to breathe.
His henchmen stood two to one side of her and one to the other. Before the closest man on her left could formulate an attack. Her left elbow came up hard and fast, right into his nose. The crunch was sickening, and the woman dropped low, sweeping the injured man's legs out from under him as the man on her right swung over her head.
This next would-be attacker was off-balanced from his miss, and the woman stood fast, bringing the palm of her right hand up hard under the man's chin. His feet actually left the floor as he flew backward, out cold before he hit the floor.
The woman turned to the remaining henchmen and saw he had his sword out. "You're going to need more than just your hands to get me," he sneered.
"If you insist," she complied. Her hand disappeared into the vest under her cloak and pulled out a foot-long sliver shaft, not more than an inch and a half in diameter.
"That's not going to . . ." he started, but stopped as with a twist of the woman's wrist, the shaft telescoped out to a six-foot pike. "How . . ." was all he got out as she spun it into a sliver disk, slapping his sword out wide and then hitting him twice on either side of his head so fast it felt like the blows had happened at once.
He felt suddenly dizzy, and his stance went wide to keep his balance. That was a mistake. The pike swung up hard between his legs and then reversed its direction, conking him on the forehead. His eyes rolled up into his head, and before he measured himself on the floor, the woman had the pike retracted and stored back in her vest.
"And you," she turned back to Darien. He was still gasping for air and wanted nothing to do with this woman. "You should pick on something with your own intelligence." She grabbed his vest, hoisting him away from the bar with strength that denied her gender, and pushed him away from her. He stumbled once, and she landed a kick between his shoulder blades that launched him into a support column in the middle of the tavern.
No one was sure if the loud crack that came next was from the man's head or the column. As if to answer the question, Darien went down hard, but the wooden post stayed standing. The woman looked down at the unconscious man and then at the column. "That's better."
She turned to the two monks. "Now, you two, I hope you've learned your lesson."
To answer her question, Jack foolishly reached up to brush her hair back from the side of her face. His hand never got close. She knocked it away with her left, and for the second time in as many minutes, her right hand shot out for a throat. She didn't attack this time but grabbed hold instead.
"What in the world is your problem?"
Jack had just recently been in a neck hold, but this one was completely different. It did not have the strength of Darien's grasp, but it knew what it was doing. He could feel pressure on nerves he didn't even know he had. If this woman twisted her grip at all, Jack knew he would blackout. "Your ears," he managed to croak somehow.
The woman kept her grip and turned to Karl. "What is your friend's obsession with ears?"
"Please forgive Brother Jack; he means no harm. We were sent to find someone, and we would know them by the mark of their ears. Our monastery is in search of a great warrior, and your display just now made Jack think that you might be that warrior, but you couldn't."
The woman released Jack and used her other hand to tuck a portion of her hair behind her left ear – a pointed ear. "The mark!" Karl cried. The woman quickly recovered her ear. "But it can't be. I mean, a woman?"
"Would you like me to give you another demonstration," she said curtly. "My name is Druianalla. I helped you here because monks once befriended me. If your monastery needs assistance, I will help as I can."
"We do not need help," Jack said, his voice still scratchy. "We are in search of you because our god has laid it upon us."
"What for?" Druia asked.
"To send you to a tournament."