The
one named Clem, a great big fat man, clad in pauldrons and a chest
plate that were two sizes too small grunted his acceptance, but
before any of them moved the child pointed at Clem. His voice had
not changed from that somewhat scratchy tone that it had always been,
yet it suddenly felt more authoritative as if he could command
reality itself to bend to his will.
“You
are more fat than muscle and when you turn your knee will make a pop
that only you can hear. You will fall to the ground screaming.
You,” he pointed his finger at the gambler that had commanded Clem,
“will die clutching your chest because you will feel as if your
heart is exploding. The rest of you will fall to blade and tooth and
claw, except him,” he said as he pointed at Beodelf. “He will
survive and you will leave him be.”
