Twenty-two years earlier:
Cimozjen stared across the battlefield at the Aundairian lines, yelling and banging their shields, massing for a new attack.
Next to him, Torval stirred. “Hey, Mozji,” he yelled, whapping Cimozjen on the shoulder. “Take a look at Kraavel’s eye!”
Cimozjen stepped around the massive Karrn, staggering slightly from exhaustion. “What about his—wow, that looks painful,” he said with an empathetic wince. Kraavel’s eyelid puckered inward and a swath of blood and ichors stained his cheek. “What happened?”
“Bah. Six-damned Aundairian arrow took it.”
“Do you want me to see if I can do something for it?”
“Naw,” said Kraavel with a grimace. “It won’t be bothering me for much longer, anyway.” He glanced up at the sun, still a few hours from setting. “I can endure it a while longer.”
“But it’s your eye,” said Cimozjen, concerned.
“Aw, I can see well enough to swing a flail,” said Kraavel, “and it looks like we’ll not be wanting for targets. Thank you, Mozji, but save your prayers for when it really matters.”
Cimozjen gave a long and hearty laugh, a welcome release of stress and tension. “You’re a good man, Kraavel, but I think nothing matters any more.”
“That’s true.”
Across the bloody battlefield, the Aundairian army began sounding their horns.
“We’d best get braced,” said Torval. “The moorhens are trying to bellows up their courage again.”
The Iron Band formed up anew, a thin wall of iron and bone fortified behind a rampart of Aundairian and Karrnathi dead. Their shields shone red, painted with the blood of the fallen, a dire warning to the enemy. They stood tall, defying their exhaustion, and began chicken-calling at the Aundairians—clucks, hoots, and catcalls deprecating the courage of their foes.
Torval glanced at Cimozjen as the Aundairians readied their charge. He grinned. “I suppose there are worse ways to die than standing next to a stinking oat herder like you, Mozji.”
“You’re a good man, Torval,” said Cimozjen. “Truly, it’s an honor to spend the rest of my life fighting next to you.” He chuckled. “And your chipmunk.”
With a yell, the Aundairians charged. The ground shook with their feet, and the air trembled with the noise.
Torval started swinging his flail in preparation. “I’ll bet I last longer than you, Mozji,” he said.
“Not a goblin’s chance,” yelled Cimozjen. “We’ll fight over it after we kill them all.”
Torval grinned. “Fair enough.”
Then all was iron, blood, and thunder.
Chapter
TWENTY-ONE
Trapped
Wir, the 25th day of Sypheros, 998
A magically enhanced voice cut through the cheering crowd, “Cimozjen of Karrnath, challenger!”
Cimozjen looked across the arena at his opponent and his heart sank. He wasn’t fighting a prisoner, but another warrior. But what did that mean? And what were the rules? Certainly her propensity toward anger and the behavior she’d exhibited in the Dragon’s Flagons indicated that she might well fight to the death. He hoped to avoid that. Again he cursed Minrah for failing to give him even the slightest hint of her plan. He vowed he would never blindly trust her again.
He gritted his teeth and looked across the beaten clay as the booming voice spoke once more, saying, “Jolieni the Hawk, five to two!”
Cimozjen steeled himself to the unsavory task, hoping he could get out of this without making a grievous error. He drew his sword, raised it in the Rekkenmark salute, and murmured a quick prayer to Dol Dorn. Holding his staff like a walking stick, he closed in on his opponent.
Jolieni circled, taking elegant sidesteps and holding her slender blade in front of her, drawing small circles. She wore a hauberk of scale mail, and heavily studded leather covered her limbs. Long boots with an iron facing protected her shins, and a skull cap guarded her head, letting her hair flow freely. A disgusted sneer twisted her face beneath her unpleasant nose. Cimozjen was uncertain what exactly she found so repugnant.
Cimozjen closed the gap and struck. Jolieni parried, their swords clashing. Cimozjen struck again and again, testing her defenses and keeping his staff in front to block any counterattacks. After several sparring flurries, it was clear that she was fast, although it also appeared that Tholog might be right about her unimpressive arm strength.
He stepped back and circled, deciding on his best course of action. While an overhand attack was perfectly feasible, it had a greater chance of striking her head and possibly dealing an unintentionally lethal blow, either by cleaving her skullcap or landing at the base of her neck. He did not want to kill her. There was no call for that, no matter how unpleasant her demeanor might be.
Although, he reasoned, he could use his sword to wear her down and then his staff to beat her into submission. Somehow, that idea didn’t bother him in the slightest.…
Pomindras walked up to the most luxurious box overlooking the arena, a walled-off section with plush high-backed chairs upholstered with satin. A variety of hirelings ringed the box, the guards armed with magical short swords and the servants armed with the best tasty morsels and liqueurs.
Pomindras entered the box unchallenged and stepped over to the largest of the chairs. “You sent for me, my lord?” he asked.
His master glowered at his lieutenant, then pointed to the middle-aged man in the arena. “That man,” he said, his voice honed with displeasure. “He was announced as Cimozjen of Karrnath.”
“What?” Pomindras lunged to the front of the box and leaned over, gaping at the veteran sparring with Jolieni in the ring. He turned back to his master, pointing. “How—how did he get here?”
“The more salient question is why is he alive? I thought I tasked you to silence him.”
Pomindras gritted his teeth. “Several of our people tried to ambush him and his friends, lord, but he sniffed it out. The mage was ham-handed and alerted him. And the Karrn is a skilled armsman. He and his companions killed four and, um, the other two, they barely escaped with their lives.” He crossed his arms and turned back to the match. “But why is he here? Do you think he—?”
“I don’t know, Pomindras. But I find it more than coincidental he boarded our ship and disrupted our events, then arrives here and participates. In fact, it is disconcerting. He cost me dearly in Throneport, and he has bothered me long enough. He will not return to the streets this evening. And this time, there will be no excuses. Do you understand?”
Pomindras looked at his master again. “I had already assumed as much, lord. I will make arrangements. And we’ll find his bed-warmer, too.”
“Him first. Haste, lest this fight end too soon. We’ll deal with his companion easily enough once we’re certain he is taken care of.”
“Of course, lord.” Pomindras bowed and ran off to attend to his task.
Minrah walked quickly down the rain-slicked alley, hunkering deep in her cloak. She glanced about nervously, afraid someone from House Ghallanda might follow her. Then a dark shape stepped out of the shadows and seized her by the arm. She gasped and collapsed to her knees.
“I did not expect to see you exit this early.”
“Four?” Minrah giggled in relief, a stilted, uncomfortable sound. “You scared me to death!”
“It has not yet been even one hour,” said Four. He hoisted Minrah to her feet. “I had thought I would be waiting longer. Either that, or I am so used to waiting that I misestimated the time.”
“No, I—I couldn’t stay. I can’t stomach the—the violence. Left before the second … second match even started. I waited around in the foyer, but even the sounds of the crowd, well, it all eventually got to be too much. Regardless, we were right about this place. One of the people in the first match was definitely a prisoner, probably both.” Then suddenly an eager smile shone across her face. “Oh, and I bet all your wealth on Cimmer to win.”
�
��What does that mean?”
“To you?” asked Minrah. “Nothing. You don’t need food or shelter or things like that, so what need do you have for gold? But to me, it means a lot. Listen, I want to get out of the rain and away from this place. Let’s go back to the inn and wait for Cimmer. With a little luck, come morning we’ll have even more coin.”
Four stalked out of the alley, battle-axe at the ready and Minrah trotting beside casting glances to either side. They turned up the street and made their way back to their lodgings as the drizzle continued to fall.
“How do we find this luck?” Four asked as they walked.
“Say again?”
“You said, that with luck, we will have more coins. How do we find some luck?”
“Oh, well, you don’t find luck,” said Minrah. “You just stumble on it. Or maybe it finds you.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
Minrah laughed. “No, Four, luck is like a … well, it’s like magic, or chance, or something like that. But no one can make it happen. It just happens by itself.”
“So it is like a god?” asked Four. “Does Cimozjen pray for luck, then?”
Minrah snorted, shaking her head. “Him? That old stallion prays to the Sovereign Host. Bah! They don’t care for us at all, you know. They couldn’t care less if we thrive or rot. They’re nothing more than absentee landlords that leave the souls of their followers wallowing in empty grayness after they die and aren’t any use anymore.”
“Then why does Cimozjen pray?”
“He hopes that they will deign to favor him with a morsel of their power, so he might survive to serve them another day. He’s made himself their slave for nothing in return.”
“You do not pray then?” asked Four.
Minrah giggled. “Oh, sometimes I do, when straits are dire. But I don’t bow and scrape to the Sovereign Host. My folks did, you know, and look where it got them.”
“Where?” said Four, looking around.
Minrah hesitated before answering. “It got them killed,” she said darkly. “They knew they were dealing with a dangerous group, so they left me behind, prayed for safety … and never returned. Fat lot of good their prayers did them.”
“Fat … lot … of good,” said Four.
“That’s sarcasm.” Minrah sniffed wetly. “I can never forget that day, that betrayal. They were betrayed by the gods they worshipped, and they were betrayed the mercantile slime they were trying to sell to. That’s why I swore never to deal in goods, just services. And that’s why I’d rather pray to those more likely to help me.”
“Who would that be?”
“The Six, Four. They’ve been thrown out of power by the Sovereign Host, and thence cast in the roles of villains. Consider this. Once there were thirteen dragonmarks, thirteen moons, and thirteen months of the year. That was before the Mark of Death was lost. Now think about this. There are seven gods in the Sovereign Host. Add that to the so-called Dark Six, and you get thirteen, right? So what makes those six gods evil? Why are they evil, but there aren’t six evil moons or six evil dragonmarks? Do you want to know why? Because they’re outnumbered, seven to six. The Sovereign Host kicked them out of the pantheon out of greed. That way they’d only have to divide the worship among seven gods instead of thirteen.
“So I figure I’m giving the Dark Six something they care about, which is prayer and worship—at least when they listen to me. So we have an understanding, the Six and I. They give me what I need if they’re in the mood, and when they do I’ll give them what they need, which is another follower, someone who recognizes who and what they are: those betrayed by their siblings in a grab for power.”
“And once you die,” asked Four, “they do not leave you in emptiness?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea. But I figure they’ll reward those who helped them. It’s in their best interests, after all. They need more power to overthrow the Host, so they’ll probably train me to be in their army.”
“So you would fight on their behalf?”
“Not on a gnome’s bet,” she said. “I wouldn’t risk getting destroyed for that lot. They’re just as selfish as the other gods … as anyone else, for that matter. Sure, I’d scout for them, but let them fight their own wars. That’s what I say. Honestly, why should I risk myself for someone else? I sure can’t think of a reason.”
Four said nothing, but the rest of the way back to their suite he pondered how much her attitude differed from that of her companion, who remained behind in the building, facing the unknown.
As Cimozjen considered his options, Jolieni leapt to the attack. With her left hand, she flung an object at the ground, which burst with a flash of fire and a loud crack that cut through the crowd noise. Flustered, Cimozjen blinked rapidly and backpedaled, but felt her thrusting sword strike his abdomen.
Jolieni’s sword broke a link of his chain and cut through his skin, but the iron held otherwise, turning what could have been a lethal blow into a sharp jab that sent him stumbling. She struck again, a glancing thrust that ran along the links of his chain and tore the side out of his tunic.
Eyes still dazzled by the flash, Cimozjen swung a desperate overhand blow while still backpedaling, his staff hand held high to protect his face. He felt it strike something, so he struck again, but missed her entirely. Just to be safe, he swung upward with the inside edge of his sword, again catching nothing but air. Then at the last moment, he saw her thrusting again. He ducked his head to the side, and her blade traced a deep cut across his left cheekbone and took a cut through the curl of his ear.
Years of training and experience kicked in. Knowing that the thrust had left her extended and open, Cimozjen swung his left arm wide, placing the staff in a position to keep her sword arm out of the battle as long as possible. He stepped in and swung his sword low, striking her a solid blow on the ribs with the hilt of his sword, then swept his staff in, fetching her a blow on the side of the head. He pressed forward, pushing into her to knock her to the ground, but as she fell, she managed to trip him up. He stumbled over her and she kicked at him, sending him to the ground. His sword caught the clay awkwardly and, off balance as he was, he lost his grip as he fell.
He rolled away, clutching his staff, and rose to his feet as fluidly as his aging joints allowed. He blinked several times rapidly, glad that the lingering glare from the flash was fading. He considered unleashing his staff to the fullest, but decided against it, confident that he could still defeat Jolieni without killing her.
Jolieni stood opposite, still holding her sword, but not in the same martial stance she’d been in earlier. She rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand, and then the other with the back of her wrist. Cimozjen wondered whether she was daubing at sweat or tears.
He charged, swinging his staff overhand. She raised her sword to parry, deflecting the swing to her left, but Cimozjen used the shift in momentum to swing the staff around and strike again with the other end. She blocked that swing, and the impact jarred Cimozjen’s hands as it drove the sword down. He swung again and again, sweeping the staff around to strike overhand with either end in turn, beating down her defense.
At the last, she abandoned her attempt at defense and lashed at Cimozjen as the metal-shod staff came down. He struck her squarely atop her shoulder, and her blade caught the heel of his hand where it held the staff. Between the wound and the impact, Cimozjen lost his grip on the staff, but his powerful blow drove Jolieni to the ground. With a flick of her sword she spun the staff off her, and it landed close enough to her that any attempt to recover it could be lethal.
Instead, he stepped back and recovered his sword, for he had planned his angle of attack to drive her away from his primary weapon for just that purpose.
She started to rise as he grabbed his sword, so he lunged in and slashed at her ankle. The impact knocked her foot out from under her and set her down, supine. She started to rise again, but he stepped over her, planting one leg firmly on the blade of her sword. He inverted his gri
p on his sword and held it to her throat, one hand on the hilt and the other flat against the blade to steady it.
The yells and whistles of the crowd, which had been a fairly steady roar, began to pulse.
Cimozjen saw that Jolieni’s face was indeed spattered with tears. His heart hesitated with compassion, but then he disciplined himself to end the combat. It was truly the most merciful thing to do. “Yield!” he demanded.
She squeezed her eyes, trying to blink away her tears. “Give me Killien back!”
Cimozjen shook his head.
The pulsing noise became gradually comprehensible. “Kill her!” chanted the crowd. “Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!”
“Rotting bastard!” She kicked at him to free herself, but he pressed the blade to the skin at the base of her neck.
“Yield, for the Host’s sake,” he shouted. “You fought well, but you’ve lost! Yield with honor!”
Her mouth worked for a moment, the noise of the crowd sounding like nothing so much as a vile, monstrous heartbeat. She gritted her teeth. “I’m sick of this,” she spat, and she shoved at Cimozjen’s foot where it stood on her sword. His foot slid down her blade, throwing him off balance.
His sword plunged into her naked neck.
The crowd roared so loudly that Cimozjen couldn’t even hear himself scream.
Chapter
TWENTY-TWO
The Sharper Weapon
Zor, the 26th day of Sypheros, 998
Minrah awoke from her meditation before dawn. She rose, stretched like a spoiled cat, and sauntered over to the window, her bare feet making no noise as she walked. She pulled the curtain back and gazed at the sky, and her keen elf eyes noted the faintest lightening in the east—a slight warmth that crept beneath the cloud cover, the subtle promise of the coming dawn.
She turned and padded quietly over to Cimozjen’s bed, then drew up with a gasp. “Four?” she whispered. She heard the construct shift slightly. “Where is Cimozjen?”
The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron Page 23