The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  The man rattled the chains. “You watch as I tear you apart.”

  “Are you sure you said that right?” asked Cimozjen. “Your face looks like you’ve hit yourself more often than your target.”

  The flail-wielding man twitched, but held his composure.

  Cimozjen added, “But maybe it’s just that you’ve been having trouble learning to eat with a fork.”

  The other shadowy attacker snickered at the jibe, and the combination of insult and laughter proved too much for the affronted man. He yelled and charged, swinging his flail in a powerful two-handed blow.

  Cimozjen steeled his resolve.

  Four wondered how best to handle the situation. In all the times the world had broken open his home, he had never had more than one person attack him at once. This was a new experience.

  He had, somewhere in the foundation of his consciousness, some basic predispositions and concepts, but he had never explored these—he’d spent his time in his home in a quiet contented emptiness of no-thought—let alone put them to use.

  On the other hand, it was a pleasant change of pace to have an upcoming combat unleashed slowly, giving him time to identify the attackers and begin to formulate a plan. It was far better than being surrounded by a hundred screaming people and wondering where the threat was.

  He faced three attackers. He had to assume that the one named Hellekanus would handle the other two. The one named Minrah was of no immediate tactical use, save possibly to throw in the path of an oncoming attacker.

  As they closed on him, one of the three held back. Four could tell that it was because there was not enough space for all three to attack at once, and for that, he was grateful to Cimozjen and his tactical expertise. All of Four’s previous fights had been in the open, and he would not have thought of using a building as a defensive weapon.

  Four decided the best approach would be to focus on the destruction of the attackers one at a time. That way, if they tried to use clever team tactics to divide his attacks and defenses, he would not be fooled. The danger that this focused approach required was a risk that he considered acceptable. He knew he would be repaired.

  The one on the left was the size and shape of a human, and held a spear. He closed the gap, crouched low, spear at the ready. The one on the right was small like a halfling. He wielded a short sword, and he hung back a bit, perhaps fearful of the superior reach of Four’s weapon. The spearman would come first. The swordling would make the follow-through attack. That conclusion made Four’s priorities obvious.

  Four held his weapon high, keeping his eye on the one with the spear. The human would likely try to get a quick jab in before the warforged’s powerful arms could bring his heavy axe-head to bear. Four knew that the spearman could jab quickly and either retreat or roll to one side. The inertia of Four’s heavier weapon meant that he would miss an overhand counterattack two thirds of the time.

  Four primed himself to strike back.

  The spearman lunged, pushing off with his rear leg and thrusting with his arms. Even as he closed, Four thrust with the haft of his battle-axe, a straight-on shot to the face. Inertia was much easier to overcome in a linear fashion than with an arcing swing. The spear plunged through the tightly-strung tendons of Four’s torso, severing many of those that helped manipulate his left hip, but Four’s counterstroke smote the man at the very top of his cheekbone, and Four heard the bone crack beneath the impact.

  Staggered, the man lurched back, left hand rising to his face. He sensed the danger and kept himself low, slashing blindly about with his spear as he backpedaled.

  Four cocked his arm and stepped forward, hoisting his battle-axe for a slower but much more powerful centrifugal overhand swing. The blade bit into the back of the man’s shoulder, breaking that bone as well. The man hit the ground on the seat of his pants, bent over almost double.

  Four stepped to the side and swung the axe.

  Minrah wanted to run, but pressed against the storefront there was no place to go. Only her two acquaintances stood between her and the six unknown attackers. She looked at Cimozjen through wincing eyes, her heart caving within her breast. She saw the first attacker take a swing at him, and she gasped, near to a scream—and Cimozjen managed to get his staff in the way of the strike, although the flail’s chains wrapped around its haft, and now the two weapons were sorely tangled.

  She heard a heavy, meaty thunk. Unable to stop herself, she glanced at Four. One of the attackers sat at the feet of the warforged, head dangling grotesquely between his knees as blood pumped from the nearly severed neck.

  She screamed. Her hands covered her face and her fingers obscured her eyes, but for a long, horrid moment she could not tear her gaze away from the decapitation.

  She didn’t fully hide her face until the halfling stepped in behind Four and plunged a short sword into the soft, organic wrappings of his back.

  Cimozjen glanced at his staff. Held high and braced against the outside of his foot, it had held against the attack. The flail’s spiked heads, whipping around the staff at the end of their chains, had entangled his makeshift shield entirely.

  Just as he had hoped. Cimozjen knew a thing or two about fighting with flails.

  He yanked his left arm to the outside, pulling the flail, complete with the attacker’s hands. The unfortunate man was surprised that his flail had tangled so badly, and as Cimozjen pulled it aside, the attacker instinctively—and foolishly—held his grip, leaving his startled expression with nothing to guard it. With a powerful punch, Cimozjen slammed the pommel of his sword into the man’s face. “Inept novice,” he mumbled as the man stumbled and fell to the ground.

  The leader snapped his fingers again, the sound sharp and crisp against the hazy background of magical fog. “Take him down.”

  Cimozjen looked over and saw the second of the thugs hesitate and pull back toward the leader. He held a rapier, judging by the silhouette of the weapon against the faintly lit fog.

  The rapier waggled up and down. “But I—he’s a soldier, and I’ve just—”

  The leader smacked the other across the back of the head. “Then smite him with your magic, dolt. Gods, how you managed to avoid frying what little brain you have is beyond me.”

  Cimozjen charged.

  Four staggered. The arcane currents that maintained his existence eddied and swirled within him. It felt as if his legs and hips were changing shape, and the chaos within him worsened as the halfling twisted the blade, shearing away more of the tendons that held his bone-and-metal frame together.

  He heard Cimozjen mutter something as the sound of combat continued to his right, and he knew that Minrah was not created in such a manner that she might provide him aid. He was on his own, and his target was small and behind him, away from the functional threat area dominated by his arms and the blade of his battle-axe.

  The sword twisted again, and Four twitched as the flow within him changed once more. After all this time, he thought, I shall fall to an attack from the rear, a strike to the back. His mind echoed the phrase—strike to the back. He wished he could do that. In that moment of clarity, he realized that the head of his weapon was double-bitted, front and rear, and it, too, could strike to the back. With a mighty heave, he swung the weapon high in the air, giving it as much momentum as he could. When it reached the apex of its arc, he yanked the hilt forward, snapping the heavy blade into a fast swing.

  Four felt the blade of the short sword press deeper into his interior, but he was satisfied with the sensation. The long haft of his battle-axe trembled with the heavy chop as he hit his assailant squarely in the back. The warforged backpedaled, knocking the halfling down with his bulk. The short sword remained stuck in Four’s body.

  Four turned and stomped on the halfling’s neck as hard as he could. He was rewarded with the sound of a wet, pained gag, and he trusted that the halfling would be out of the fight for a while at the minimum. Regrettably, the disruption within his flow caused the warforged to stagger as h
e tried to recover his feet.

  That was when the third attacker’s mace hit him squarely on the temple.

  Sensing that the mage was uncomfortable in martial situations, Cimozjen tossed his staff at him, spinning it through the air, and charged the leader. The leader gave ground quickly, raising his shield for protection while drawing his own weapon.

  Cimozjen slashed his sword low, hoping to catch the leader’s knee beneath his shield, but the man was too fast, skipping his leg up as Cimozjen’s blade passed. Cimozjen lunged forward and thrust, but inexplicably hit nothing as the man raised his shield to block.

  “Curse this mist,” growled Cimozjen. He thrust again, once more missing both the man and his dark shield.

  The leader spun around, keeping his shield toward Cimozjen, and struck a backhand blow at Cimozjen’s unprotected right side.

  Cimozjen felt the blade bite deep into his flesh, then slice as it was withdrawn from the wound it had just made. The edge of the sword felt hot as it cut into his muscle, and he felt the weave of his tunic being pulled along through the wound like little barbs.

  The leader’s momentum carried him around to face Cimozjen again, but the veteran soldier charged in hopes of getting a strike in before his foe could raise the shield anew. With a roar he struck a heavy downward chop toward the man’s collarbone, but the enemy had anticipated such a move. He came around with his shield raised high, and in that brief moment before impact, Cimozjen saw his face.

  Pomindras, the erstwhile commander of the Silver Cygnet.

  Cimozjen’s sword bashed into the man’s shield, and at the same time he felt a bolt of electricity course through his body. The impact and jolt nearly caused his sword to drop from his enervated fingers. He cried out in surprise and nausea as the shock trembled in his joints and curdled his stomach.

  He stepped back from the leader and lunged hard and fast toward the mage.

  Deep within the folds of his criss-crossing tendons, Four felt his neck crack.

  His head flopped to the side, resting on his shoulder.

  But he didn’t fall.

  He didn’t think he could fight effectively while viewing the world on its side, so Four stepped back from his attacker, who was startled into immobility over the warforged’s resilience. Once at a safe distance, Four reached over with his left arm and pulled his head back upright once more. It was unstable but serviceable, and it kept his perspective the way he was used to.

  Thus satisfied, he again gripped his battle-axe with both hands and moved toward the mace-wielding foe.

  The attacker promptly dropped his weapon and ran into the misty night.

  Four turned to Minrah and gestured with one hand in the direction of his retreating foe. “Can they do that?” he asked. “I did not think that was allowed.”

  Half-blinded by pain, Cimozjen surged forward. The mage stood, slightly hunched, his eyes and mouth forming nearly perfect O’s of surprise and fear. Cimozjen ran him through the gut without breaking stride, ramming his broadsword so deep that the hilt slammed into the unmoving wizard’s floating rib.

  Simultaneously Cimozjen’s shoulder struck the man in the breastbone, and the double impact knocked the mage over. He fell, sliding off Cimozjen’s weapon. Years of training and practice kicked in, and Cimozjen drew his sword back out of the man as he stepped past him and spun to face the leader again. Turning his head, he saw that the leader was not charging him, so he took an extra vicious strike at the downed mage. The wounded man grunted, but said no more.

  Cimozjen readied his sword.

  A shadow in the mist, commander Pomindras turned his head back and forth between Cimozjen and Four, then fled into the night.

  Cimozjen listened to his footsteps depart, but then the fading sound was suddenly overwhelmed by a gruesome crunch behind him. Cimozjen turned to see Four just pulling his axe out of the sundered body of a halfling. The warforged looked carefully around, turning his entire body instead of just his head. He spotted the first attacker Cimozjen had felled, the flail-wielder with the broken face, and walked over to him, raising his battle-axe.

  “Four!” called Cimozjen. “Stop!”

  “Why?” asked Four, stopping.

  “Because we won,” said Cimozjen.

  “We did?” came a quiet voice.

  “Yes, we did, Minrah,” said Cimozjen. “You can get up now.”

  Keeping his weapon out, he moved toward his companions, scanning the darkness for any new threats. In the nighttime mist, the blood-splashed cobbles looked colorless and rather ordinary. Even the bodies of the fallen were not particularly loathsome when stripped of detail by the haze. The mage lay splayed out on his back, while behind Four two other bodies, one large and one small, lay crumpled. In contrast to the sights, or perhaps because of it, the mist served to enhance the horrid odor of internal organs.

  “Um, you have … a sword in your back,” said Cimozjen.

  “Please remove it,” said Four. “It is causing me difficulties. My neck is damaged, too.”

  “Your neck?” asked Cimozjen, withdrawing the blade from Four’s organic wrappings. “Do you need attention?”

  “I am in functional condition,” said Four. “However, we should avoid further combat.”

  Cimozjen leaned his staff against the wall and ran his fingers along the wound in his side. “I can agree with that,” he said. He walked over to the man he’d first struck and looked down at him. He was still alive, his pained breath hissing in and out through his teeth. Cimozjen nudged him with his boot. “Get up.”

  The man slowly rose, weaving back and forth as he struggled to maintain his balance. He kept his hand held protectively over the left side of his face.

  “Who sent you?” asked Cimozjen. “I know your commander, but were you also on the Silver Cygnet?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who are you with? Whom does Pomindras serve?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Listen,” said Cimozjen, “I hold nothing against you. You did as you were told, or perhaps as you were hired to do.”

  As he spoke, he pulled out his holy talisman from beneath his tunic and gripped it. He said a brief prayer, and it began to glow. The divine light starkly showed the massive bruising that marred the man’s face. Murmuring another prayer, Cimozjen reached out with his left hand and gently ran one finger along the edge of the bruising, and the unsettling sound of bone knitting whispered in the quiet of the night. The man gasped at the discomfiting sensation.

  “There,” said Cimozjen. “It’ll still be sore, but it’ll not keep you up all night. So. Who sent you?”

  “Not likely. If I tell you, they’ll kill me.”

  “Tell me who you’re with.”

  The man sneered. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, do you? We were just going to teach you a little lesson, send you packing back to Karrnath with your hands covering your backside. But now, now you’re in real trouble. Pomindras will find you.”

  “I healed your cheek,” said Cimozjen sternly, “and I can retract that service if you have no gratitude for the Host’s blessing.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Cimozjen hit him with the hilt of his sword again, a hard blow right where he’d broken the cheek a few moments earlier. The man went down with a cry. Cimozjen hauled the man up by his collar and kneed him hard in the stomach twice, then let him drop again. He hauled him up a third time and pressed the tip of his bloody sword against the man’s jugular vein.

  “Hoy,” whispered Minrah, “Cimmer is boiling over.”

  “Listen, Aundairian, I’m going to spare your life, and you’re going to show me some gratitude. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded.

  He pressed the sword even more firmly into the man’s skin. “Neither you nor any of your friends is going to attack us again, or I will not be so merciful. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded again, more emphatically.

  “And yo
u tell your masters that we want the one responsible for the death of Torval Ellinger of the Iron Band. If they turn him over to me, we’ll leave. Understand?’

  The man nodded once more. “Torval Ellinger.”

  “It’s not good enough, Cimmer,” said Minrah. “I know his type. He’s a thug. Brave when in control, weak when threatened.”

  “Do you swear it?” shouted Cimozjen.

  “Swear!” said the man. “Yes, I swear, we’ll let you be. Torval Ellinger.”

  “Not enough, Cimozjen,” said Minrah. “The instant he’s away from your sword, he’ll be plotting to kill us—and with more people. You have to kill him.”

  “He swore. By the soldier’s code—”

  “He lied, Cimmer. He’s no soldier. You can’t trust those like him. My folks, they did, and—! Just do it, Cimmer.”

  Cimozjen released his grip on the man’s clothes and took a step back, lowering his sword. “I’ll not kill a defenseless man, Minrah.”

  “You have to!”

  “No,” said Cimozjen. “It’s not right.”

  “He knows you won’t. That’s why he’ll swear anything to get you to let him leave. Cimozjen, you have to kill him!”

  “I can not.”

  Four stepped forward and swung, cleaving the man’s skull where he stood.

  “I can,” he said.

  Chapter

  EIGHTEEN

  Idyllic, Not Peaceful

  Zol, the 24th day of Sypheros, 998

  Cimozjen stared at the warforged, aghast. “What was that for?”

  “Minrah said it had to be done, and you said you could not do it.”

  “But there was no reason to kill him!”

  “Yes, there was,” said Minrah, who nonetheless shielded her eyes from the carnage. “People like that are like rabid rats. You can’t let a single one of them get away. If you do, they only—”