The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  “Good.” Tholog put a small pouch on the counter. “Put this on Cimozjen … to die.”

  “The man no one dares challenge, fighting by lot, Cimozjen Hellekanus, the Killer from Karrnath, defender!” boomed the voice.

  Cimozjen ignored the boos and catcalls from the crowd. It was safe for cowards to berate a warrior when safely ensconced in the seats above the arena. He also tried to ignore the pangs of hunger that plagued his stomach, for the rations he’d been given since his capture were not quite enough to sate his appetite. No wonder Torval had looked so thin.

  Instead of attending to distractions internal or external, Cimozjen prayed that Dol Dorn would allow him to prevail in this combat without taking a life.

  Across the way, the door opened. Within was a shadowy shape, and, from his vantage point, Cimozjen could see that it had been contained within a large crate. He wondered how many others had watched Four step out of a crate just like that.

  “And, by special request,” boomed the voice, “a new creature enters the arena! We’ve managed to procure, at great expense and at the risk of losing our immortal souls in the Karrnathi bureaucracy, a real Karrnathi zombie!”

  The crowd cheered.

  “Who will it be, people? Which vile spawn will prevail, the living or the dead? Cimozjen favored, four to one!”

  Four to one, thought Cimozjen, with no small sense of pride. Pretty good odds. I wonder what Four’s odds were like.

  The zombie stalked out of its crate, and suddenly Cimozjen had the answer. The roaring crowd. The lone voice, cutting through the noise, calling the odds, dragging out the pronouncement to stoke the excitement. Four to one. Ffourrr-to-oooonne! It was the noise the warforged had imitated for them. How suitable that it had served as the seed for his name.

  The zombie closed like a seasoned warrior, its legs in a wide, well balanced stance. It kept its center of gravity low, and held its shield and sword to the sides, ready for action. No mortal could maintain such an aggressive stance for long without tiring. It was one of the advantages the zombie had. That, and the zombie couldn’t bleed to death.

  Its eyes glowed with a malevolent fire, a glint as of the gaze of Khyber himself. They shone starkly against its leathery skin, blackened and desiccated by the alchemical reagents that helped give it motility. It bared its teeth and began to close.

  Giving ground to buy time, Cimozjen watched the undead creature, studying its armor, the tatters of its uniform, and the cut of its facial features. Well, he thought, at least it’s no one I know.

  He also realized that Dol Dorn had answered his prayer. Only one life was at risk this evening.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Last, Desperate Act

  Zol, the 3rd day of Aryth, 998

  As Minrah opened the door to the Dragon’s Flagons, the hot, noisy air gushed out into the chill autumn evening. She took a step back, wondering if that was what war was like—sticky, loud, surrounded by violent people who smelled of sweat and other things best left unmentioned. She steeled her resolve—made possible by the fact that Four entered in front of her—and plowed her way into the thick atmosphere.

  As they had discussed, Four went and stood in the corner. Aside from making him feel comfortable, it also gave him the best view of the tavern and kept him out of harm’s way. Minrah stood beside him for a while, watching the business.

  “Do my eyes deceive, or are the thugs swarming more than on other nights?”

  “There are more people here,” said Four. “Almost half again as many as the most we have previously seen.”

  “Something’s going on,” said Minrah. “Well, that will possibly allow me to complete my task a tad more readily. Now to find my target. Keep an ear angled for me, Four. Or whatever you have that hears sounds.”

  As crowded as it was, Minrah was forced to move among the patrons to find the person she was after. And, after being jostled, cursed at, mocked, lewdly propositioned, and doused with a spilled tankard nigh full of cheap ale, she at last found the person she sought.

  “Boniam,” she said with a smile far sunnier than her heart truly was. “Would you … permit me to sit at your table?”

  He gestured grandly to the empty seat with his mug. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Minrah sat demurely. “Well … I don’t see Jolieni here tonight …”

  He canted his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed. And we won’t be seeing her here again, more’s the pity.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” said Minrah with a compassionate look. “What … precisely happened?”

  Boniam gave her a strange look. “Your friend killed her, didn’t you know?”

  Minrah gaped.

  “That’s not entirely accurate, I suppose,” he said. “Rather Jolieni used your friend to kill herself. He tried to get her to yield.”

  “I—I’m so sorry,” said Minrah.

  “It happens,” said Boniam. “As a soldier, you accept that. And with her, the way her heart was burning, it was bound to happen sooner than later. In fact, it may have been the best thing for her, to end it all quickly, rather than get eaten up from within with your own blood poisoning your soul and killing you a day at a time.”

  “But—but she was your—”

  “She was an acquaintance,” said Boniam. He took another swig. “We were helping her out, but she didn’t let anyone get close to her.”

  “Oh. Well. There it is, then.” Minrah struggled for words. “Um … how are you faring?”

  “I’ve been better,” he said.

  “Really? What news?”

  “Took a sword to the bowels,” he said, grinning ruefully. “Thought I was destined for Dolurrh, make no doubt, but the healer got to me in time. So now I am indebted for several hundred sovereigns, and I’ll be working that off.”

  “Several hundred …”

  “And well worth it, believe you me,” said Boniam. “I can’t tell you what it feels like. The warmth—you can feel the warmth of your own insides on your hands, but at the same time you feel the cold of the world inside you … it’s just … well, I’d rather be working off a debt to a healer than any of the other results I can think of, even if it does take a couple years or more. I’d double my debt if I could get that memory out of my head.”

  “So you’re working off your debt by …?”

  “By fighting in the ring, of course.” He smiled sheepishly. “I just hope I don’t get eviscerated again, or I could spend the rest of my life in that circle of clay of a debtor’s prison. To better fortune!” He raised his mug in salute. “And how is it by you, fair one?”

  “Better than many, and envied by most,” she said. “I’ve won a fair haul with a canny wager, so I’ve more than enough crowns to keep me in wine.”

  “Wonderful news!” said Boniam. “Next round’s on you!” He drained his mug and slammed it on the table. “So what’s the word? I haven’t seen you here in several days, thought maybe you’d moved on.”

  Minrah leaned forward, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers. She gazed raptly at Boniam, searching his face. “Really? Our absence was a surprise?”

  Boniam pushed out his lower lip and shrugged. “I guess maybe not. At least no more so than you showing up here in the first place. Doesn’t really seem like your kind of place. But the Karrn seemed at home.”

  Minrah’s gaze flicked from one of his eyes to the other and back. “So are you interested in me, or not?”

  “Who wouldn’t be? You’re a very pretty thing, especially for an elf.” His faced flushed. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “You mean you’re not attracted to me?”

  “No, I am. I mean, um, ah, my tastes usually run to bigger, more robust women than your typical elf. Besides, you seemed like you were attached to that Karrn. But I don’t have anything against elves in general. Spent too much time fighting alongside them to have any problems with them, that is.”

  Minrah feigned a pout. “And here I thought
you were interested in me personally. Consider the other night, you came and sat with us, and you were asking all sorts of questions. Where we were from, what we did …”

  “Oh, that? This one gentleman—one of them that owns the arena, I think, at least he’s rich enough to—he was asking after you, that’s all. Wanted to know more about you so he could invite you to dinner or sponsor your man in the ring or something.” Boniam shrugged again. “He asked me to find out for him, because this isn’t his sort of place.”

  “Oh, then I guess it was a coincidence,” she said. She managed to signal one of the serving girls to bring Boniam another drink.

  “What was?”

  “We were ambushed that very night,” said Minrah, matter-of-factly. “Assaulted by a small band of brigands as we walked home.”

  Boniam reared back, then his temper took hold. “Filthy goat-whelps!” he slammed his fist on the table. “One thing I can’t stand, it’s them who beat up weak folks for fun or purses! Uh, no offense.”

  Minrah giggled. “Don’t fret your words,” she said. “I know I don’t cut a terribly frightening profile. But my friends were plenty big enough.”

  “Do tell.”

  Minrah described the events of the battle as well as she could remember them, which was not overmuch, considering she’d spent most of her time hiding her face. As she recounted the tale, she looked intently at Boniam’s face, but saw not a flicker of recognition or duplicity in his expression, just a righteous indignation at robbery and those who make it their profession, and a cold glee to hear the fate of those that had perished. And, judging him to be concerned with the brutalities of war rather than the subtleties of deception, she decided he was truly ignorant of his role in the events.

  Boniam’s next drink arrived, and Minrah flipped a copper crown onto the serving girl’s tray.

  “Oh, hey, you don’t need to be paying for my drink,” he said. “I only spoke in jest.”

  “It’s not a problem in the slightest,” said Minrah. “As I said, I’ve done well.”

  Boniam winced. “You should probably be saving it to pay for healing, though,” he said. “Seeing what happened to your friend last night, I don’t think it’s very kind of you to spend it so freely. Unless the two of you aren’t involved any more …” A vague, confused look of hope crossed his features.

  “What happened?”

  “You didn’t hear?” He grimaced. “Folks say he got the business end of a broadsword the other night, fighting one of his zombie countrymen. Cut him up good before he put a dagger in its brain.”

  Minrah gaped. “Oh my word,” she said, putting a hand to her mouth. “I hope he can hold up. I knew we were running out of time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “When’s the next, um, fighting thing at the arena?”

  “Tomorrow night. Should be plenty of time to hire a hospitaler mage.” He glanced around the tavern at the other warriors. “And I’d suggest you do so. Looks like we’ll have a full slate.”

  Minrah sucked on her lips for a moment, her troubled eyes darting around the table. At last she made up her mind. “Boniam, you seem like a decent man,” she said. “Direct, honest.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you ever broken someone’s trust?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Have you ever told someone a secret told to you in confidence?”

  “No. Uh, well, not since I was a child.” He shrugged. “There was a time I didn’t know better, but not since I became an adult.”

  Minrah stared into his eyes. “Never?”

  He thought for a moment. “No, I never have,” he said plainly. “Why?”

  Minrah grimly blew a stray hair out of her face and signaled for more drinks. “Because I’m about to tell you the terrible truth.”

  The next day was bitterly cold and windy, but Minrah did not spend it waiting in their suite. Four followed her around the entire city as she wandered aimlessly, unable to sit still for more than a few moments.

  Sunset found them sitting at a roadside table in a small courtyard. Minrah picked at some food that had long gone cold in the wind.

  Four looked at the small potion in his hand, a colored glass bottle sealed with wax that bore the Aundairian royal sigil. The clerk had said it was magic.

  “What am I to do with this?” he asked.

  “Four, just—!” She held up one hand, seemingly cutting off her own tirade. She growled. “I’ll tell you when it’s time, got it? In the meantime, just be quiet and let me think!”

  “Why are you so unsettled?” asked Four. “Your visit with the Aundairian authorities went well, did it not? They said they would launch a raid at our discretion. And Cimozjen is still alive, is he not?”

  Minrah sagged, then looked up and smiled wanly. She tossed her fork to her plate. “It’s the waiting, Four. I’d hate to see it all slip away at the last moment. There’s a lot that could go wrong, but so much that could go right. I just want everything to turn out.” She stood and wrapped her cloak around her. “I’m just anxious, that’s all.”

  She walked down the street toward the riverside.

  Four followed, wondering if she were concerned more for Cimozjen, or for the story she’d been writing.

  “Cimozjen the Black, the Killer from Karrnath, defender!” bellowed the barker, his arcanely amplified voice cutting through the ambient noise. At the heels of the introduction rose a rash of hisses, catcalls, and even the occasional supportive cheer.

  Cimozjen didn’t care. Let the crowd think what they wanted to think. If he made a name for himself in the arena, be that name honored or infamous, it would only make it easier for Minrah or Four to find him and set him free.

  He stalked into the arena, holding himself proudly. Even as a gladiator and a slave, he was determined to uphold the honor of the Iron Band and to win every fight that came his way. Only through survival could he possibly make his holy retribution for his fallen brother, and only through survival could he continue to defy those who held him against his will.

  Freedom. The first thing he’d do would be to get a decent meal. The gruel they fed him tasted like the underside of a hard-ridden saddle.

  He wore his chain mail, padded beneath by his tunic. He wasn’t sure why they let him keep it. He still didn’t have a helm, nor did he think they’d ever give him one. He had his sword in hand, his staff in his off hand, and his dagger concealed at his back.

  And he had a seven-day growth of stubble across his chin, slowly forming itself into a beard. He did not relish the thought of using his sword—or worse yet, his heirloom dagger—as a razor, but his other options were slim.

  He pulled his attention back to the present, shoving away thoughts of food and hygiene. He had someone to fight. And, unfortunately, someone he might have to kill. He knew that, given his nickname and the reputation he’d backed into, anyone he faced would be unlikely to give him any mercy.

  A bugbear entered the far side of the arena, holding a massive double-bitted battle-axe. The creature was large, six feet tall, covered with a coarse dark-brown fur. Large goblinoid ears propped out to each side. The one on the right had a pair of silver hoops run through two piercings, the one on the left was tattooed with a pair of runes or symbols that Cimozjen couldn’t read at that distance. It had small eyes that seemed to glow with anger. Its muzzle was pronounced and powerful, reminiscent of the bear for which the species had been nicknamed untold ages ago. It wore a breechclout and a pair of heavy leather straps crossed across its breast, but no other clothing or armor.

  Cimozjen closed the gap, sizing the creature up. It likewise stepped closer, walking upright rather than using the bandy-legged gait Cimozjen had expected.

  Cimozjen stopped. He cocked his head, inspecting the bugbear’s features more closely. He smiled. “You have experience in the arena, I see,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the crowd.

  The beast raised his axe and spun it about its haft, then stretched
its arms out to the side. “Silence!” it bellowed in its gravelly voice, and the crowd obeyed. “Cimozjen Hellekanus,” the beast continued, shouting. “I bring a message to you from Tholog. He remembers your deeds in this ring, and tonight he wishes to see you die.”

  The crowd roared.

  Cimozjen lunged with his sword, aiming straight for the heart.

  “What was that?” yelled Rophis, leaning forward in his plush chair.

  “I haven’t the slightest,” said Pomindras, seated beside him. “I’d swear he was going to skewer that beast just like he did the hobgoblin. He didn’t miss at that range, did he?”

  “Of course not,” said Rophis. “The impact pushed the bugbear back. Their breastbones must be tougher than we think.”

  “Bad luck to him, then,” said Pomindras. He gestured to the side. “More wine!”

  Rophis looked askance at him for just a moment.

  “I want to enjoy this,” said Pomindras. He took the proffered goblet and took a long sip. He sighed contentedly. “As much as I can, for as long as he lasts.”

  Rophis settled back into his chair, clapping with appreciation as Cimozjen got inside the bugbear’s reach and the two combatants clenched for a moment like wrestlers. It looked like the bugbear was trying to bite Cimozjen’s ear off. Then the bugbear threw Cimozjen aside and took to the offensive.

  Rophis leaned toward Pomindras. “My friend,” he said, not taking his eyes off the combat, “I don’t know whether or not I hate the man any more. He caused us problems, it is true, but he is so entertaining to watch. And his callous attitude has drawn out the crowd.”

  “Drawn out their crowns, you mean,” said Pomindras. “He makes us a lot of money on wagers.”

  Rophis laughed. “You’re right. He may be the best thing that’s ever happened to us.” He turned his head. “More wine!”

  Cimozjen stumbled and fell, then rolled quickly out of the way as the bugbear’s axe came down. It bit deeply into the arena surface, spraying Cimozjen with small bits of clay. He rolled further away and regained his feet, panting heavily.