“The Pilgrims of the Grahn Aur run from their enemies,” the goblin replied from his throne in a nearly bored air. “They do not deserve hope or deliverance.”
“They will soon reach the waters of Mistral Bay,” Vendis continued. “Then where shall they go unless the great Pajak of Krishu will lend them the aid that he has promised?”
“They would go nowhere,” the goblin sneered. “They cannot continue toward the north, for it would only bring them into difficult lands and closer to the fortress of their elven enemies. Back across the low hills they cannot go, for the Legions of Rhonas pursue them there. Westward they will never go—for those are the lands of the goblin kings and we have vowed none shall cross our borders and live!”
“Then must the Pajak of Krishu fulfill his bargain and give us the ship and provisions that he generously offered,” Tsojai said.
“No, the Pajak will not!” the goblin sniffed.
Braun opened his hands. “If it is a matter of the bargained price . . .”
“At no price,” the goblin warlord yelled.
“Then the Pajak of Krishu has no honor!” Vendis shouted.
Soen winced visibly.
The ringing of two hundred Krish blades sliding from their crossback scabbards resounded in the hall as the Pajak of Krishu stood.
“Insolent, thoughtless bendy!” cried the goblin warlord, his bony finger pointing down at the chimerian in disdain. “You come into the tent of the Pajak, enjoy the hospitality of his fortress, the protection of his warriors, the magnificence of his wyverns, and the magnanimous generosity of his compassion—only to insult him to his face? The Pajak of Krishu would be justified under the Law of Nashkan in having you pulled apart by the wyverns of his own house! And I would do so at once were I more certain that tying a bendy to my precious pets would not do them harm!”
Soen drew in a deep breath, thanked whatever gods were still listening to him that he had familiarized himself with the customs of the northern lands before he had started down this bad road, and then held both of his arms upright, the backs of his hands turned toward the enraged goblin.
The Pajak saw the gesture and stopped his tirade, turning his glaring, large green eyes on the elf. “And what do you want?”
“I beg to speak before the Pajak,” Soen said, his pupil-less black eyes averted.
Tsojai spoke sharply. “Soen has no authority here!”
“I believe that the Pajak alone grants authority in his own Jhagi,” Soen countered.
“At least this long-head has manners,” the Pajak spat.
“And why should I listen to the insults of this quiet elf called Soen when the chimerian and his brother elf are doing so well on their own?”
“The chimerian,” Soen answered in a calm voice, “is a fool and does not respect the riders of the wyverns’ flight.”
“Well said,” added Braun.
Vendis gaped at Soen. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
Soen ignored the chimerian and continued as he lowered his hands back into his lap. “The Pajak is both generous and honorable. He had once agreed to furnish us with a ship to cross the northern waters. He had before agreed to give us aid in this journey. The Pajak remains a goblin of honored story and fame. But we are fools. Will the Pajak tell us why he will no longer accept our treasures in exchange for his generously offered assistance?”
The goblin’s eyes narrowed as he pursed his thick lips. His head began to nod and he sat back down on his throne.
Two hundred krish blades quietly slid back into their resting places as well.
“The Pajak is honorable and generous,” the goblin warlord said, relaxing back into his large and gaudy throne.
“And is this why the Pajak has generously determined not to accept payment for his aid?” Soen asked casually.
“The long-head is wise,” the Pajak nodded.
“What does that mean?” Tsojai whispered to Soen.
The goblin on the throne glared contemptuously at the nervous elf.
“Let us speak clearly before our host,” Soen said in a voice that was loud enough to carry through the tent. He enunciated with exaggerated clarity. “The Pajak of Krishu is both generous and honorable. I believe he is refusing the offering of our payment to his tribe because it would be stealing, would the noble Pajak agree?”
The goblin warlord’s face split into a wide, sharp-toothed grin as he waved a hand in a magnanimous gesture.
“You see,” continued Soen with one eye on the Pajak, “he knows that he cannot fulfill his bargain. To take our payment without granting us the agreed exchange would be theft—something which a noble Pajak would know to be against the Laws of Nashkan and would put a curse on his tribe. The Pajak is no thief.”
“Nor my people,” the goblin said in a magnanimous tone. “We are the Krishu.”
“Yes,” Soen bowed from where he sat. “But may this long-head ask the noble and generous Pajak of Krishu why with all the powers of his great people he cannot provide ships and provisions?”
“We are not a people of the water,” the Pajak replied.
“What need have the goblins of Nordesia of the wide waters when they command the northern hills and all the land between them?” Soen said, smiling with his own pointed teeth. “But when the Pajak of Krishu made the bargain, he most sincerely believed he could fulfill it. Something, it seems has changed—for which the Pajak and his tribe are surely blameless.”
The goblin considered from his throne for a moment.
“Will not the Pajak grant these poor fools the benefit of his knowledge and cunning?” Soen asked quietly.
The goblin warlord smiled once more. “The Pajak likes you, Soen. Your tongue is as smooth as any he has heard and no doubt you could charm eggs from a male wyvern. The Pajak cannot provide you a ship, Soen of the elves, because they were all burned in the water that held them two nights ago off the shore of Glachold.”
“Glachold!” Vendis exclaimed. “We had heard it was all but deserted.”
“It has reached the Pajak’s ear that the garrison in Port Glorious got an unexpected arrival of two full cohorts—almost twelve hundred warriors—who have been on forced march,” the Pajak replied, his eyes fixed on his guests. “They arrived in Glachold two days ago and have burned every boat they found down to its keel.”
“We would be able to destroy the cohorts in Glachold,” Vendis said. “It’s not that strong . . .”
“The Pajak would ask what you would then do, having captured the wondrous port of Glachold?” the goblin warlord sniffed, shaking his head. “You would have your backs to the sea with no ships and the Legions of the elves from the south. Still, it is all hot blood and fancy. You will never reach Glachold.”
“We will,” Tsojai replied. “We are marching there even now.”
The goblin shook his head and smiled once more. “The Pajak knows that the Legions are closer than you believe. They have the smell of your blood in their nostrils and will soon be upon you. Two days, perhaps three . . . no more.”
“Then help us,” Vendis pleaded. “You have your mighty wyvern riders! You could slow the Legions—buy us time to escape!”
“Escape?” the goblin shouted in derision. The goblins in the hall all broke into laughter. The Pajak joined them, and it was some time before they quieted enough for the Pajak to speak again. “You want us to fight so that you can flee? Your people who have never once yet obtained the honor of a victory in battle wish to appeal to the Pajak of Krishu to fight your battle for you? We are a noble and a great race! We have had victory in battle and earned our right to survive! And you ask us to pit our warriors against the might of all Rhonas when you will not risk it yourselves? We will watch your battle with amusement. When it is finished, then we will have your treasures after all, Pilgrims of the Coward Drakis.”
“What does that mean?” the chimerian demanded.
“It means,” Soen answered, “that he won’t take your bribe for the boats he cannot
deliver—but there is nothing dishonorable about stripping the dead on a battlefield. He expects us to die.”
Book 3:
CITADELS
CHAPTER 34
Arenas
THE COLISEUM WAS a grand oval structure and the center of entertainment in Rhonas Chas. Situated south of the spires of the Myrdin-dai Abbey down the aptly named Vira Coleseum and overlooking the Paz Vitoras plaza across from the Nekara Fortress enclosure, the Coliseum had once been a combat training facility for the Legions of the Empire. It still served this function although its primary interest for the citizens of the Empire had evolved into its violent, often bloody and, through rare accidents, occasionally deadly pageants which were staged by the Nekara for the entertainment of the Emperor and his court, ostensibly under the guise of informational reenactments of battles from long past or even recent history. The Nekara had produced an entire series of such pageants during the War of the Nine Dwarven Thrones, proudly displaying captured dwarves dressed as warriors. The dwarves always lost, of course, each one engineered through their Devotions to faint three to four blows following any blow that made them bleed. Each of these impressed Devotional slaves would then be taken below the Coliseum to where the Nekara kept their healing beds and be repaired and placed under new Devotions in time for the next performance. They could thereby come back to die before the crowd again the next day—or die twice for matinees. Occasionally, something would go wrong during the performance and an actual fatal blow would be struck that was beyond the arts of the healing beds and the slave would be killed outright, if unintentionally. The owner of the slave was always handsomely compensated for the loss and, if truth be told, the crowds returned in part to see if such an accident would happen again. But now the dwarves were no longer news, their kingdoms conquered by the Legions of the Emperor and the pageant of the Ninth Throne had completed its run. The public was getting bored with reenactments of the Aergus Coast Barons’ Rebellion or the Benis Isles Campaigns—this was old killing.
The public wanted fresh stories and fresh blood.
Thanks to the recent actions of the Legions of the Northern Fist and the rapidly spreading notoriety of the young elven woman by the name of Tsi-Shebin Timuran, the public would have its wish fulfilled. It was in her name, so the story now was told, that the Legions had marched northward against the Drakis Slave Rebellion. On the haunted expanse of the Shrouded Plain they met, and it was here that a new victorious story had been forged by the Fist of the Imperial Will. Tales of the victory had spread quickly through the Empire and were at the heart of nearly every conversation in Rhonas. So it was natural, indeed, anxiously expected—that the Nekaran Prefects should stage a spectacle in the Coliseum reenacting that glorious triumph as soon as permissible.
It was then, thanks to an idea forwarded by Liau Nyenjen, head of the Ministry of Thought, that the Nekara were given a special dispensation. For the good of the Empire, the Nekara would be permitted to schedule the death of one human at each performance. The Nekara balked at this idea. First, they reasoned that a regularly scheduled execution at every pageant would be an expensive proposition. The resulting escalation in human prices on the slave market would prove a boon to many in the outer provinces where the occasional human slave found under House Devotions would soon fetch their masters unheard of prices at the expense of the Nekara. Worse, the public might come to expect—even demand—more and more executions as they became hardened to the killings in the pageants, causing further escalation in costs. However, when Liau mentioned that Tsi-Shebin Timuran herself would perform each execution, the Nekara could see their potential returns expanding far beyond the risks involved and the new, sensational pageant was created.
At each performance there would be one exceedingly unfortunate human who was crowned to represent Drakis in the battle as it was portrayed. His fate was sealed and well known to everyone attending—except, perhaps, to the unhappy human at the center of the pageant. These “enhanced reenactments” were so popular among the elven populace of the city that additional performances and matinees had to be scheduled, resulting in a serious supply shortage of human males.
The hopes of the Nekara for a quick profit by the staging of the most violent to date of their spectacles, however, could not have been dreamed of to the extent that they were now enjoying; for the seneschals of the court had announced that the Imperial Box was to be made ready. The Emperor himself was attending the opening performance.
No price was too high nor favor too dear that it could not be traded for a place in the Coliseum that day.
The face of the Emperor was on every coin of the realm, carved into the ornamentation of every building, and depicted on statues in every plaza, garden, and courtyard both public and private throughout the Empire.
It was not a good face.
It was privately joked throughout the Empire that the Emperor, whilst a child, had so often assumed the countenance of practiced disgust over everything that his features had frozen that way. His upper lip was drawn back in a perpetual expression of disdain, showing his sharp upper teeth even when his mouth was ostensibly closed. The upper eyebrows were thin lines drawn back from the dull black eyes. His chin was particularly sharp, accentuating the long, narrow point of his nose. He constantly wore the long crown of his office; a golden wreath trimming the central headpiece that completely covered his elongated head in an opalescent shell. That the crown was also rumored to cover the fact that the Emperor had no hair on his head at all was never spoken aloud by anyone higher than the Fourth Estate and, therefore, was never heard within a thousand steps of the Emperor’s ears.
He gazed down on the combat taking place on the arena floor below him with placid contempt. The Impress slaves that were taking the roles of the Army of the Prophet were obligingly doing their part to fall unconscious as they bled at the hands of the advancing elven warriors representing his northern Legions. The slaves were putting on a good show of battle as they were being pressed into a line of ghostly spirits—or, at least, fine representations of ghosts provided by the graces of the Myrdin-dai—who fell to the ground whenever they were pushed beyond the line of what the narrator had called the “Shroud of Spirits.” This part of the spectacle bored him. He had already heard the reports of the battle from several different representatives of the various Houses, Orders and Ministries who had been directly or indirectly involved in the attack. He knew the pageant below them to be largely true although, perhaps, the manticores in the actual battle fought harder than those being wounded now on the arena floor below him.
And, of course, there had been no actual Drakis in the battle at all. The Emperor preferred to think of the unfortunate human desperately struggling on the arena floor as being more of a symbolic representation of Drakis rather than any actual creature. All story, he decided, was largely symbolic and should be modified where the truth became inconvenient.
He certainly could not deny that the populace loved it.
The Coliseum was packed from one end of the tiered bowl to the other, every available space taken up by teeming throngs of elven citizenry. With every blow struck and every fallen enemy before them, they cheered wildly.
“Wejon?” the Emperor said with his usual sneer. “Who is this you wanted me to see?”
“She is coming, my august lord,” Wejon Rei said to the Emperor from his seat just behind the Imperial throne.
“But the pageant is nearly finished.” The Emperor shifted slightly on his enormous chair. “The enemy is nearly vanquished. What more is there?”
“Only a few moments more, O glorious one,” Wejon urged softly. “I do not think you will be disappointed.”
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into coming to this,” the Emperor said to the Myrdin-dai master. “So far, this has proved to be a waste of an afternoon. If you and Ch’drei had not been so insistent, I would have never . . .”
The Emperor was suddenly aware of a hush falling over the audience crowded into every av
ailable space of the Coliseum.
From the southern entrance, a single figure emerged. She was a young elf in a tattered dress who stepped barefoot onto the bloodied sands of the arena floor. She walked past all of the still bodies of the fallen “traitors.” A single human struggled and screamed wildly, his arms and legs pinned to the ground by the long tridents of six elven warriors—each in resplendent armor. He was the last human remaining alive on the field and knew that his moment of drama was about to be fulfilled.
“Who is she?” the Emperor whispered, unwilling to break whatever spell the woman was casting over the crowd.
“She is Tsi-Shebin,” Wejon whispered back.
“The actual Shebin?” The Emperor was genuinely impressed.
“Yes, my glory,” Wejon said. “She plays the role herself at every performance.”
“Indeed?” The Emperor raised an Imperial brow. “Every performance . . .”
Shebin strode over with reluctant steps, her face downcast, a picture of shame and despair. As she came upon the held human figure of Drakis, she picked up his sword from the ground. Then she stood over him, raising the blade high above her head and shouting to the expectant crowd.
“The traitors lie! You are not the Drakis who has taken our lands, our honor, and our future! The real Drakis has fled to the north, where he plots in darkness to return and take from all our nation what he has already taken from me!”
Shebin turned to face the quivering human on the ground below her. The crowd in the Coliseum held their breath in delightful anticipation.
“But you shall not take from us ever again!”
Shebin plunged the sword downward into the chest of the prostrate human. Her thrust was carefully planned and the response was always the same. Blood gushed up the sword from the wound as she turned the blade, coating her hands and forearms. Then, Shebin pulled the weapon clear of the dying creature, turned, and with her arms now falling to her sides and her head once more bowed in sadness, slowly walked off the field, reluctantly dragging the tip of the sword through the dirt behind her.
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