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"And, sirs, picture it if you will: a mage and two men, tall and
steeped in evil, glowing before me, and me fresh out of a stream,
armorless and unclad. Picture the mage frowning and preparing to
cast his death-bolt, and picture me, sirs." He straightened. Even in
armor, his stomach bulged. "Picture me naked."
"Please," the balding drover muttered, "I'm eating." The other
snorted and covered his mouth and nose hastily. Tumber the
Mighty took no notice.
"What could a man do?" He looked around as though expecting
an answer, apparently from the ceiling beams. "Ah, but what might
a hero do?" He thumped the table, bouncing the potato bowl. "I
dove." He ducked forward, and both drovers ducked back. "I
rolled." He swayed to one side, barely missing Reger, who nimbly
side-stepped him. "I grabbed my sword, this very sword at my
waist, and with bare knuckles and an uncharmed blade, I parried
that magic bolt back at him." Tumber folded his arms tri-
umphantly. "He died, of course. I named my sword Death-bolt, in
honor of that day."
His triumph became discomfort as the drovers, not applauding,
looked at him cynically while they chewed in unison. He glanced
around for other listeners and noticed a local woman with striking
red hair and well-muscled arms who was staring at him, her mouth
open. She said, "Where was this?"
"Ah. Where indeed." He spun to her table and sat. "A land so
far from here, so strange to you, that if I spoke of it-"
"Do," she said hungrily
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