The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (35 page)

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.

The Dragon’s Trail
Sul, the 1st day of Aryth, 998

I
t 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.