“You mean a challenge?” asked Minrah. She giggled. “Easy coin.” She pulled out Cimozjen’s coin pouch, but then tucked it onto her lap again. “But isn’t a melee in public proscribed by law here?” She rose and tucked the coin away. “Thank you, no. I’m not going to let you trick me into getting us arrested and pilloried. Won’t hear of it.”
“We won’t,” said Jolieni. “There’s—”
Minrah covered her ears and began to leave the Flagons. “No, I’m not listening. I don’t want to be arrested for this.”
“Coward,” called Jolieni as Minrah reached the door.
The young elf stiffened, then took a moment to ensure that the smile was completely erased from her face before she turned back around. “Pardon me?”
Jolieni pointed to a stool. “You sit there,” she said. “I’ll be back within the bell, and we’ll see if your carthorse truly has the courage you claim for him.” So saying, she swept past Minrah into the night.
Cimozjen stirred as the morning light coaxed him from his sleep. “What’s that smell?” he murmured, then he bolted upright. “Fire? Is there a—” He cast about, and his eyes finally settled on Minrah, curled up cross-legged in one of the chairs.
“Since when do you smoke a pipe?” he asked, unnerved.
Minrah giggled. She took a deep draw, then let the smoke out in a series of tiny Os that floated across the room until fading from existence.
“It’s a habit I picked up from Dadda. I always smoke a bowl whenever I win.”
Cimozjen rubbed his eyes, and coughed. “Win?”
“I have us a trail to the answer to our mystery, and our key into the secret workings of House Ghallanda,” she said triumphantly. She pulled a tightly curled piece of parchment from her sleeve. “Take a look at this.” She waggled it between her fingers.
Cimozjen grumbled something unintelligible and dragged himself out of bed, wrapping the blanket around him. He waddled over to Minrah, took the parchment, and unrolled it as best he could.
“ ‘Eighth bell, Corner of Stockade and Braided, gray door in the alley,’ ” he read.
“It’s an invitation,” she said with a grin as wide as her ears were long. “All our answers are there.”
Cimozjen raised his eyebrows. “I see. And what will we find there?”
“I really haven’t a clue.” Minrah winked. “My guess is that we’ll get to see what the fights are really like, and hopefully figure out who’s behind it, then leave as quickly and quietly as possible. Though you’d likely be best served by bringing your sword and mail, ’cause we’re dancing a dangerous line here, and things could get difficult if I’m wrong.”
It was well past dark as Cimozjen, Minrah, and Four searched through the fringes of the neighborhood known as the Newall quarter, looking for the address scrawled on their invitation. The rain had eased to a dull drizzle, and both Minrah and Cimozjen huddled in their rain gear. Four remained unfazed by the weather, and carried his battle-axe at the ready.
They finally found their destination—a nondescript door built into the rear of an elegant stone building, an edifice so large that a dozen or more wealthy houses could likely fit inside. A single oil lamp with a reflective dome on top cast light in a circle around the doorway. Heavy drips fell from the building’s eaves, splatting in the rain puddles and banging the lamp’s protection like a tiny ill-tuned gong.
“Hoy, this is exciting,” said Minrah. “And kind of scary.”
Cimozjen gave her a quizzical look. “You truly know not what lies in here?”
“Know for a fact? No, I don’t. I’m not even completely sure the prisoner fights are held in there, but I think so. I have other suspicions, but they’re nothing more than wild flights of fancy. Let’s just see what we get into, all right?”
Cimozjen eyed her, then tossed his head in resignation. “And I thought you were merely holding out to be a tease.”
She sidled closer as enticingly as she could whilst covered with a rain-drenched cloak. “I may tease the others, Cimmer, but you’re the one holding out on me.”
Cimozjen ignored the comment, drew a breath, and knocked firmly on the door.
After a few moments a view slit banged open. Two suspicious eyes glared out, darting back and forth between the three. The business end of a crossbow made an appearance as well. It was not pointed directly at them, but it conveyed a threat nonetheless. “What’s yer business?” snarled the guard, his voice somewhat muffled by the wooden door.
Cimozjen handed over the paper that Jolieni had given Minrah.
The eyes glanced at the paper, then back at the trio. Then they glared at Four.
“What’s that doing here?”
“It’s Four,” said Cimozjen.
“What?”
“This is Four.”
“I don’t care what it’s for,” said the guard. “Get it out of here.”
“That’s his name,” said Cimozjen. “Four.”
“I don’t care what you named it for,” said the guard. Then he added, in a tone that said the concept should be painfully obvious to all, “We don’t allow their kind in here. You leave it outside. And away from the door. Makes the other folk nervous.”
“I’m sorry, Four,” said Minrah.
“Sorry for what?” asked the warforged.
“Sorry that you can’t come in.”
“I was trying to be funny,” said Four. “Is that not what the doorman was doing?”
Minrah sighed. “Sadly, no. And maybe Four isn’t such a good name for you after all. But regardless, they won’t let you in. You can wait out here, say in that alley across the way there, or you can meet us back at our rooms.”
“I will await you here and think about which name might suit me better.” He turned to face the disdainful eyes. “Do not fret, doorman, I will remain out of sight.”
“Try to stay out of trouble, Four.” said Cimozjen.
“Right,” added Minrah. “And don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Four withdrew, and the door opened. Cimozjen entered, followed by Minrah.
“That way,” gruffed the guard, pointing to a descending stair. Cimozjen took the stairs, and Minrah started to follow, but the guard stopped her. “You go that way,” he said, pointing down a hallway away from the stairs. “We can’t have you mingling with them.”
Cimozjen stopped and turned. “Pardon me for asking,” he said, “but—”
The guard pointed impatiently down the stairwell. “You got questions, git downstairs. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.” He shoved Minrah toward the hallway as another knock sounded on the door. “Now git moving, girl. I’m busy here.”
Thus impelled, Minrah turned to berate the door guard, but curiosity overcame her natural rebellious streak and she did as she had been bidden. The hallway turned a corner and descended a half flight into a common room with several small barred windows along one wall. Behind the windows, Minrah saw several people and a large billboard. No one stood at the windows at the moment, although a scattering of people chatted quietly in clusters about the room. Minrah opted to continue scouting, and slid through the common room to the wider staircase that descended from the other end.
The stairs descended into a large auditorium that seemed as large as the building that rose above. Thick arching pillars served as the roots of the building’s foundation. Between the stone pillars, rows of seats overlooked a small clay field, scarred and stained, and sunk ten feet below the closest of the seats. Close to half of the seats were already filled.
“Dark Six,” whispered Minrah. “I was more right than I thought.”
She ran back up to the common room and dashed over to one of the windows. In the enclosed room behind, a large, lined board proudly displayed—
Match / Challenger / Defender / Odds / Trend
Sepia-colored lines crawled on the board like centipedes, forming and reforming letters and numbers.
There, partway down the list, she saw “
Cimozjen Hellekanus” listed. He faced long odds. Seemingly in a trance, Minrah pulled out her pack and began pulling out a long loop of twine.
Cimozjen found himself in a room with as diverse a group of fighters as he could imagine. They ranged in age from arrogant youths too young to have seen action in the War to aged and grizzled veterans who looked like time had treated them far worse than the enemy ever had. The majority of those present seemed to be of his age or up to a decade younger.
Almost every race was present—humans, a dwarf, a smattering of elves, and a sizeable collection of the more aggressive species—and the weapons each carried were as varied as the people themselves. He recognized several faces from the Dragon’s Flagons. Many of them talked to each other, boasting, bragging or comparing ideas, making the noise level as loud as that of a packed tavern, and requiring people to raise their voices to communicate.
There was one other door in the room, a large, heavy door eight feet tall and five feet wide. Along the wall beside the door stood a man with a tin whistle and a quillboard and a quartet of solidly built, armored men bearing short pole arms with blunt forked-tipped ends.
Cimozjen turned in a slow circle, trying to get himself oriented, figure out what was going on.
“Haven’t seen you before,” lisped a hobgoblin, thumping Cimozjen on the shoulder. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the talk. “I’m surprised you don’t look more nervous.” He held out a hand. “I’m Tholog.”
Cimozjen clasped his hand and noted that his grip was steady and strong. “Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service. Glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Who are you up against?”
“I’m sure I do not know,” said Cimozjen, still slightly bewildered.
The hobgoblin snuffled, which Cimozjen took to be a laugh. “If you didn’t issue a challenge, then it’s Traveler’s draw for you. Hope it doesn’t pair you off with Ripfist or the Black Shield. Either of them, and you’re meat.”
“Issue a cha—?” Cimozjen narrowed his eyes. “Minrah,” he said darkly.
“Minrah? Don’t know her. But I’m sure you’ll do fine. You’ve got a warrior’s look about you, and you’re a lot calmer than most newcomers. Most have a sort of desperate look about them. Or eager, and that’s worse.”
The noise in the room grew to that of a crashing sea. The hobgoblin looked like he was going to say something else, but just closed his mouth and patted Cimozjen on the shoulder.
The man against the wall consulted his quillboard and raised the whistle to his lips. He piped a clarion and shouted, “Nelter! Let’s go!”
A halfling emerged from the corner of the room and swaggered to the door. Tholog nudged Cimozjen and gestured to the small warrior with a smirk. Cimozjen saw that despite the overconfident gait, the halfling was drumming his fingers on his thigh. One of the armored men opened the large door, and even more sound washed in through the opening. It was the sound of cheering. The halfling stalked out the door, and a loud voice boomed out, cutting through the roar and proclaiming, “Nelter Toothrider, challenger!”
The door closed up behind him.
Tholog nudged Cimozjen again, and pointed to a row of benches that ran along the wall that flanked the door. Cimozjen twisted his face to show his lack of understanding, but Tholog walked over and stood on one of the benches, bringing his face up to the level of some small windows set into the wall. Cimozjen followed and climbed up on the bench beside him.
The halfling stood to one side of a beaten-clay arena defensively swinging a tangat, a small, heavy sword with a blade curved marginally less than a scimitar. In his off hand he held a boomerang. His light scale armor glittered in the glow of many lights.
Across the arena, a human stood. He was clad only in worn peasant’s garb—a sleeveless tunic, pants that frayed to an end just below his knee, simple leather shoes. He looked like he had scraps of cloth tied about his hands and another scrap tied as a headband. He stood as if awaiting something, swaying slightly, looking about at the crowd. He seemed not to notice Nelter at all.
Tholog nudged Cimozjen, and pointed to the human. “Bad draw,” he shouted.
The crowd was roaring, so Cimozjen held up his palms to ask why.
Tholog leaned very close to Cimozjen’s ear. “That’s Ripfist,” he said loudly, enunciating every word carefully. “Need a fast feint, or you die. Watch.”
Cimozjen watched as Nelter edged toward the apparently defenseless human along a long arcing path. He waited until his Ripfist had turned his head away, then let fly with his boomerang. The weapon spun in, curving around behind Ripfist, yet as it drew close, the human spun and swatted the weapon aside with his hand. He turned back around, scanning the entire crowd, his brow furrowed in consternation.
“It’s strange,” yelled Tholog with a grin. “It’s like he’s always half asleep.”
The halfling pulled a small shield from his back and strapped it to his arm. Then he closed in with his shield in front and his tangat concealed behind it. As Nelter drew closer, Ripfist finally seemed to take notice of him, and watched passively as the halfling stepped into striking distance.
Nelter’s step grew jittery. Cimozjen saw his feet shuffling with nerves. Then, at once, he pulled his shield aside and thrust with the point of his tangat.
Ripfist reacted with blinding speed. He pushed his hip to the left, barely evading the attack. Then he grabbed Nelter’s sword hand with his left hand and twisted it up and over, putting the halfling into a joint lock. With his right, he speared his victim in the esophagus, then released the sword arm.
Choking, Nelter dropped his sword as he reached for his throat. Ripfist smacked his hands on the halfling’s ears, rupturing the eardrums, then, with his thumbs, he gouged out the hapless fighter’s eyes. With his hands thus firmly gripping both sides of Nelter’s skull, he kicked up with his knee and smashed the halfling’s nose onto it.
Ripfist shoved Nelter to the ground and vaulted over him, a spinning near-somersault that sent his legs flying through elegant and dangerous arcs. Ripfist quickly spun as if expecting unseen enemies, then grabbed Nelter’s chin and head and turned his head completely around, severing the neck.
Nelter flopped face first onto the clay arena. Or, Cimozjen noted, it would have been face first if his head weren’t so out of position.
For a moment, a dead silence reigned.
Then the crowd erupted in wild cheering. Ripfist shuffled around, the now-familiar look of consternation on his face.
Tholog slapped Cimozjen across the top of his arm. “Too obvious,” he said. “Too slow.”
Cimozjen nodded, but not in response to Tholog. He nodded because he finally realized the extent of the fights. As he’d feared, House Ghallanda had never delivered the prisoners commended to their safekeeping. But rather than just pitting prisoners against each other for sport, they allowed headstrong veterans and would-be warriors to challenge them. By keeping the elite warriors from every nation, Ghallanda made the duels a daunting, exciting task, but, with gambling, one that could pay off handsomely if a challenger won.
House Ghallanda, of course, won either way.
Cimozjen studied Ripfist as an unarmed boy gently led the monk from the arena. He looked at his appearance, his rags. He was definitely a prisoner as Torval had been. And while Cimozjen was too late to save his friend, there were still some he could save—Ripfist stood as testimony to that—and he could see to it that whichever members of House Ghallanda had perpetrated this crime against the Code of Galifar faced justice for their heinous deeds.
He smiled coldly. “This should make for a good story, Minrah,” he muttered.
He turned away from the window and hopped off the bench. First to the Sentinel Marshals, then to the Crown. And then to post a note to Theyedir once it was all done, thanking him for being an instrumental link in the chain. And finally, back home to the land he loved to resume his search for the woman he loved.
He walked across the room toward the
exit. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he abruptly found his way barred by two of the guards, their unusual forked weapons crossed to block the door.
“No one leaves once the arena opens,” said the guard. “House laws.”
“But I have to—”
“Slop bucket’s over there,” said the other guard.
“You misunderstand,” said Cimozjen, “I was just—”
“No exceptions!” said the first guard, who shoved Cimozjen back into the room.
Cimozjen turned and found that several of the other fighters were looking at him. Then someone grabbed his arm and turned him around. Cimozjen clenched his fist and cocked his arm for a strike, until he saw Tholog looming over him.
“Give it up,” the hobgoblin said. He ushered Cimozjen back toward the windows. “The only way out is through the arena. You’ll get over your jitters soon enough.”
Cimozjen started to say something, but Tholog cut him off. “No one gets to renege on a bet or a challenge. Bad for business. But relax, you’ll do fine.”
Cimozjen drew a deep breath as the crowd outside applauded another bloody match. “Six thanks to you, Minrah,” he cursed. “But seven thanks to the Host I came fully equipped.”
“Cimozjen Hellekanus! Let’s go!”
Cimozjen had long since shucked his oilcloth longcoat, folding it neatly and placing it, along with his haversack, in the care of the errand boy. He’d kept his tunic on to conceal his chain mail. His sword was sheathed at his side, and he grabbed his metal-shod staff as he stepped down from the viewing bench. Tholog gave him a friendly punch on the arm and a big lopsided grin.
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Cimozjen presented himself to the man with the whistle. Just as the door began to open, Tholog hustled over. “You drew the Hawk!” he yelled. “Fast, but weak arms!” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Over the top! Over the top!”
Cimozjen stepped out of the door, and found himself on the clay arena floor. A veritable sea of faces surrounded him, yelling, taunting, fevered for blood.
The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron Page 22