the man in mismatched armor asked Grimluk. “Is it missing?” Grimluk asked. The man in the mismatched armor—so-called because he wore a helmet that was obviously too large for his rather small head and a chain mail shirt so small it was tied together in the back with pieces of yarn—stared at him as if he were mad. Crazy mad, not angry mad. “The tongue, fool. The language. Vargran, the tongue of power.” Something about the phrase the tongue of power struck Grimluk as funny. He grinned, revealing his five intact teeth. This proved to be a mistake. The man in the mismatched armor socked Grimluk in the mouth, hard, with an armored fist. “Not so toothy now, are you?” “Hey!” Grimluk found the detached tooth heading down his throat. He stopped it by gagging and then spit it out into his hand. “You had no right to punch me!” “You stupid bumpkin,” the man snarled. “Do you think this is some mummer’s game?” Grimluk wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what a mummer’s game might be, and millennia would pass slowly by before Google would be created to answer questions such as this.
