The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  Now he understood the burning pains he felt. He ran his hand down his tunic and found a small charred hole situated over one of his burns. Whatever elemental magic was imbedded within those cleft polearms, his chain mail had done nothing to protect his body from it.

  Slowly he peeled off his tunic, and then his chain hauberk. It grated across his wounded ear, eliciting a hiss of pain. He let the armor fall to the floor. It half covered his foot.

  Caged.

  Just like Torval had been, he was certain of that. Caged and forced to fight in the arena for the amusement of others. The promise of repatriation twisted into a never-ending nightmare of mortal combats for the benefit of the heartless.

  He turned around and surveyed his room anew. A bucket sat against one wall, a second lay across from it. Slop and food, he assumed. The walls were of windowless stone. There was nowhere even to sit but the pallet. No decoration of any sort, save the words “Ajiuss Aeyliros” scratched into one wall. He presumed it was a name. Either that, or an elven epithet.

  Torval had suffered for years like this. Two long years of brutality. Cimozjen looked about. With his belt, he could probably figure out a way to hang himself, deny his captors the satisfaction of any further entertainment from him.

  But if he were to do that, he would fail in his sworn goal. His friend Torval would remain unavenged, and his own last act would be one of defeat. He wouldn’t even be dying for anything, just dying against something he did not want to endure. Just like Jolieni, with her bitter face and her pointless suicide that he knew would haunt his nights for months.

  No, he had to hold on. He had to play his part and wait. He had an advantage that Torval didn’t. He had friends on the outside who knew his situation. Four hadn’t been allowed into the building, and hopefully Minrah had escaped their clutches as well. She was clever. All he had to do was wait until they figured out a way to set him free. Which, he admitted, might take weeks, even months.

  In the meantime, he had to survive, and, to the best of his ability, avoid any more killing. He was here to free his fellow prisoners, not to murder them. And the other warriors, the ones who opted for this dangerous sport, they probably did not know that people like him were held in bondage.

  For him to survive, though, he’d have to fight. He’d have to cause needless pain on people who knew not the extent of what they were doing or, worse yet, shared in his cruel fate. He’d have to do the bidding of his captors, or at least appear to be doing so … if there was truly any difference.

  He hated the feeling of being trapped. He’d had the feeling before, prior to being captured, and it had not ended well then, either. At least this time he had a better inkling of what he needed to do to get out of the situation. Somehow he had to keep winning … without killing his opponents.

  If he could help it.

  He hung his head.

  And there, thanks be to the Host, he saw his holy symbol still dangling about his neck. With a grim half smile, he grasped it in his right hand. And for the first time in twenty-two long years, he prayed for his own healing without a trace of guilt.

  Pomindras snarled and tore the broadsheet from the pillar where it had been tacked. Ignoring the shouts of the other commoners nearby, he quickly folded it up and stormed away.

  His fury propelled him to the walled compound that served as his family’s residences and halls of business. Guards opened the door for him that he might not have to break stride. His heavy boots clomped up the central stairway and down to the end of the wood-floored hallways until at last he reached the grand suite that overlooked the serene Aundair River.

  He was admitted immediately.

  A large, gilded desk polished to a mirror sheen dominated the room. Behind that desk sat a large overstuffed chair, so grand in design that it nearly rivaled a throne. At the moment, that throne showed its back to the door, turned as it was to face the panoramic windows that had been opened at the rear of the room. The view out the windows showed the dawn unfolding on the cityscape below and the countryside across the river.

  Pomindras stepped into the suite and around the desk, stopping near the huge chair. He bowed to his master. “Something I think you should see, lord Rophis,” he said.

  Rophis neither turned his head nor answered, but simply held out one hand.

  Pomindras placed the broadsheet in his grasp, saying, “About halfway down, lord.”

  Rophis unfolded the broadsheet and read.

  Bound by Iron

  A True Adventure in Betrayal, Murder,

  and One Man’s Quest for Vengeance

  Part the First

  Scribed by Minrah Penwright, Who Has Seen All that Has Transpired and Swears to Its Veracity

  This is a tale of sacrifice and loss, blood and woe, betrayal and redemption; and you, dear readers, may yet play a part in the final act in which, we all fervently hope, shall at last be had the wrathful vengeance for illicit wrongs done to untold innocents guilty of no crime other than wishing to be returned home after the armistice that concluded the Last War.

  Our story, dear readers, begins some seventeen days prior to this, in the city of Korth, near the harbor on the left bank of the Karrn River …

  Chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Dragon’s Trail

  Sul, the 1st day of Aryth, 998

  It was incongruous. If she were so meaningless, if she were the small insect she felt she was, why then should her heart pound so hard that she feared it might rattle the walls?

  Minrah sat at the edge of a large, uncomfortable chair placed in the middle of a large, inhospitable room devoid of any other furniture. Exquisitely carved Eldeen darkwood paneling with delicate molding covered the walls. The immaculate floors were of polished pearlescent stone that seemed to glow with a gentle light, there being no other apparent explanation for the illumination in the room. Huge shields adorned with the Lyrandar family crest—the coiling tentacles of a kraken grasping at a perfect pearl—hung at the four corners of the room, and she was certain that the tentacles actually moved whenever she wasn’t looking at them. Even the frilled draperies strung along the ceiling were coiled and arranged to resemble the grasping, suction-cupped limbs. She wondered if they’d come to life were she to make some grievous error.

  The chair was large enough that her feet didn’t quite reach the floor, which was itself unnerving. It made her feel even more like a child. Her toes tapped together and she pulled on her fingers, alternating hands obsessively.

  “Is that a spell you are casting?” asked Four, peering over the back of the chair to watch her fidgeting hands.

  “I wish it were,” said Minrah. “I’m just nervous. It took us almost two days to get this appointment, and I hope I didn’t shoot wild.”

  “In my consideration, you presented your arguments quite well.”

  “We’ll see.”

  They waited some more in the large, empty, silent room.

  “I hate this,” said Minrah.

  “Hate what?”

  “Waiting.”

  “We have not been waiting long,” said Four.

  “Not long? I’ll bet it’s been a bell, maybe two.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a long time!”

  “You have never truly had to wait,” said Four. “I find the lack of stimulus to be peaceful.”

  Minrah shifted to sneer at the warforged. “So you’re saying my talking is disrupting your relaxation?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned away and curled up in the chair. “Well, I am sooo sorry.”

  Minrah waited some more, stewing. The knowledge that Four was settling back into a pleasant nothingness did nothing to improve her mood.

  Finally, with the loud click of a heavy latch, the double doors at the far end of the room opened, admitting the Lyrandar representative Minrah had spoken to earlier. Minrah heard Four stiffen behind her, but thankfully he made no aggressive moves.

  “We have reviewed your tale,
Minrah,” said the Lyrandar.

  “It’s not a tale. It’s all true, and I saw it with my own eyes.”

  The Lyrandar held up one hand. “Permit me to rephrase. We have inspected the publications of the Chronicle for the twenty-seventh through today, and reviewed your contributions thereto. However, we find nothing in there that would justify opening hostilities between ourselves and another dragonmarked house, especially one as powerful and influential as Orien.”

  Minrah sniffed and leaned forward, her hands on her knees and her elbows out confrontationally. “If you had listened to me, you’d have noticed that I did not ask you to do anything hostile to anyone. All I asked was that you provide benevolence and consideration for the Sentinel Marshals should House Orien decide to curtail their support. Which I expect they will do after the Marshals put an end to this ongoing travesty. In fact, the only thing stopping the Marshals from giving the Oriens a hard law-enforcing kick in the groin is fear of losing the mobility that Orien support grants them without something of equal value being provided by another means.”

  The Lyrandar smiled. “We heard you the first time, Minrah. However, we wanted to ensure that you heard yourself. You have not asked us to initiate hostilities, nor will we. However, we will be more than happy to render whatsoever aid or assistance the Sentinel Marshals might require, and out of respect for the Code of Galifar, to do so without recompense. And if this should help us both to remove our individual obstacles, so much the better.”

  He bowed shallowly and gestured to the door behind Minrah. “I believe our audience is concluded. The guards will escort you out.” He smiled blandly. “We thank you for your time and attention in this matter, Minrah, and look forward to more installments of your prose.”

  Unseen hands—presumably magical—unlatched the shackle that held Cimozjen away from his equipment. After three days of waiting, marking time in a cell with no human contact, he presumed he was to fight again. He assumed they’d made him wait in solitude for so long in an attempt to break his spirit, but they had failed. He had his patron god, and somewhere out there he had his friends, so he did not feel isolated.

  Cimozjen wondered what would happen to him were he to refuse to prepare to fight, or to enter the arena. All the answers he came up with were short and brutal, and diminished his chances of finding justice for Torval, let alone the other prisoners.

  He donned his armor. He wished he had a helm, but he’d not worn one into the building, thinking that secrecy was of the greatest import. He stepped over to his weapons, checked the edge of his sword and, satisfied, girded himself with his belt and scabbard. He picked up his staff, checked it thoroughly, and saw that it had not been tampered with. So much the better. Finally he picked up his dagger, held it for a long moment, and sheathed it.

  Cimozjen genuflected, murmuring a long, soulful prayer to the Sovereign Host for their guidance and protection, and to Dol Dorn that he might have both strength to prevail and mercy not to kill.

  Then he waited, occasionally stretching out to try to limber up his aging limbs.

  After a short while, he felt the floor shift beneath him, a ripple passing through the earth as though his cell itself was crawling. Perhaps, he mused, it is.

  The undulating sensation passed, and then his door opened. He saw a short passage, no more than three feet long. At the other end, another door swung open, and the sound of a hooting, whistling crowd washed in. He walked through the doors to his next appointment.

  He stepped into the arena. The crowd applauded as a voice intoned, “Eager to return to the ring following his brutal murder of Jolieni the Hawk, hungry for more blood, Cimozjen Hellekanus, the Killer from Karrnath—defender!”

  Across from Cimozjen, a second door opened. Tholog sauntered out, holding a huge warhammer slung over his shoulder. “And, with strength to match his opponent’s ruthlessness, Tholog, the Full-Hammer Hobgoblin! Odds are level—one to one!”

  Cimozjen winced as he saw Tholog’s weapon. With light weapons, it was possible to pull a blow to inflict less damage, potentially sparing a life. With a massive hammer, the inertia was difficult if not impossible to overcome, thus each strike had a greater chance of being the last.

  The hobgoblin smiled as he approached but stopped just out of weapon’s reach. “I had to find out,” he said, shouting to be heard over the crowd. “You fought well against Jolieni.”

  Cimozjen gave a slight bow. “I am flattered,” he said. “But if you will please indulge me, grant me a moment to survey the arena before we start. I had no chance to do so last time.”

  The hobgoblin spread his arms graciously. “As you wish,” he lisped, his protruding teeth mutating his sibilants. “Meeting you is my only appointment this evening—save perhaps healing a few cuts and bruises after I defeat you.”

  Cimozjen stepped back several paces—no sense in presenting too tempting a target—then looked about the theater. Rising tiers of seating circled the arena walls, ranging from simple stone benches to ornate upholstered chairs.

  Then his eyes fell upon a face he recognized—Pomindras, who’d commanded the Silver Cygnet as well as ambushed him in the streets of Fairhaven. He stood at the edge of a luxury seating area, which was cordoned off from the rest of the crowd by a festooned wall that rose to about four feet.

  The timbre of the cheers and yells from the crowd started to take an impatient turn.

  Cimozjen turned his head away before was caught staring, then walked back to face Tholog. “Who is that man? The bald and bearded one standing by the expensive seats.”

  Tholog stole a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Him? No one knows his name. No one I know, anyway. We call him the Black Shield. That’s how he’s announced when he fights. Speaking of which, Killer from Karrnath, I put my money on winning, not slaying. You seemed decent enough, so I thought I’d give you a chance to survive, hmm?” He readied his warhammer.

  “Your money?”

  “Of course. You think I do this for fun? It is, sure—I like whacking people with Pounder here—but the pay isn’t enough. So I place a bet on myself whenever I walk the clay.”

  “Pay?”

  The crowd started to hiss and whistle their annoyance.

  Tholog looked at him funny. “Yes. Why, did you get shorted?” He chuckled. “If so, you need a pounding for being a buffoon.”

  Cimozjen planted his staff on the clay, but did not draw his sword. Instead, he placed his hand on his hip. “You know that I’m being held against my will.”

  “Quit talking.” Tholog shifted his grip and moved his weapon into an attack position. “The crowd’s getting restless.”

  “I’ve not left this building since I fought Jolieni. They’ve kept me in a cage.”

  “They what?”

  “They imprisoned a friend of mine since the end of the War, making him fight,” said Cimozjen. “Wore peasant’s garb and an iron armband. He died two weeks ago. That’s why I’m here. Now they have me.” He studied Tholog’s reaction. “Minrah. Remember that name. Minrah. She’s at the guesthouse on Chandlers Street near the lightning rail station. Find her and tell her I’m here.”

  Tholog shook his head. “No … no. You can’t be telling the truth.”

  The crowd’s displeasure grew louder, more insistent.

  “Minrah! Remember it! She knows not where I am!”

  “Don’t lie. This is all volunteer. You knew what we were getting into just as much as I did.”

  “Do you distrust me? Look at my right boot. Look at the marks the shackles made.”

  Tholog glanced down.

  Cimozjen struck, whipping the dagger from the small of his back, flipping it in his hand, and plunging it with a back-handed stab into the nape of Tholog’s neck.

  Tholog’s eyes bulged. He dropped his hammer and clawed at the wound as blood spurted forth.

  Cimozjen forced him to the ground, not a difficult proposition as the hobgoblin was quickly bleeding to death. Eyes glaring, Cimozjen leaned his
face right into the hobgoblin’s. Tholog’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  Cimozjen hunkered over the body for a few moments. The crowd went silent, wondering if he were smothering the hobgoblin or possibly working other atrocities with his dagger. At last he straightened up and shoved Tholog away. He wiped off his dagger, stropping it several times on Tholog’s sleeve, then wiped the blood from his fingers on the material as well.

  He stood and raised his arms to the crowd in acknowledgement of his victory, holding his red-stained hands aloft. He took a bow, his bloody holy symbol swinging like a pendulum and his dagger glinting in the light. He retired to his cage to the hissing and catcalls of hundreds of angry spectators.

  Rophis the Winemonger wrenched a leg from the magebred turkey that sat steaming in the center of the table. He tore some of the meat from the bone with his teeth, breathed in and out to cool it a little with the passing air, then gobbled it like an alligator.

  The Blinking Hippo was an experiment, a Ghallanda eatery supplied with magebred animals of every sort from the best breeders of House Vadalis. Odd animals they were, like this turkey with four fat legs, but very tasty indeed. They promised to deliver a six-foot long rack of ribs for him next week.

  He was looking forward to it. Life had turned very, very good.

  The door to the private dining room opened, and a familiar figure stepped in.

  “Pomindras!” said Rophis around the half-chewed chunk of turkey that was still in his mouth. “Come! Sit!”

  He patted the back of the empty chair at his right hand. Rophis had held the chair open for him, a gesture of appreciation for his assistance in capturing the damnable paladin who’d disrupted the operation of the Silver Cygnet in Thronehold and just as swiftly had galvanized the house’s clientele as the most hated man in the arena. After they’d debarked from the Fire Flight, Pomindras had been excluded from the table as punishment for allowing the troublesome Karrn to board the Silver Cygnet in the first place, but Rophis was a forgiving man, happy to reward those who overcame their own failures. Rebuke and reward. It was a powerful combination to bend people to his will.