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.”