The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (39 page)

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.

The crowd groaned and cheered at his escape.

He wiped one hand across his upper lip, locked eyes with the bugbear, and said, “Well, at least we’re making a good show of
it. I doubt anyone expected you to last this long.”

“It is now time for you to die!” yelled the bugbear.

“Think so?” panted Cimozjen. “Last I checked, I had a say in that decision.” He staggered momentarily, then lunged to the attack. He jabbed his staff at the bugbear’s eyes to distract him, and swung his sword in a low, rising forehand slash, aiming for the hip. He connected right below the crest of the hip. His arm jarred with the impact, but the bugbear showed no sign that he even recognized that he had been struck.

The bugbear swatted Cimozjen’s staff from his sweaty hand. It fell to the clay at Cimozjen’s feet.

Cimozjen stumbled forward with his momentum, but the bugbear backpedaled and used the butt end of his two-handed axe to get underneath Cimozjen’s forearm. With a strong flip of his muscular arms, he pushed Cimozjen’s sword arm into the air, and then he swung crossways with his axe, striking the blade at the pommel and stripping it from Cimozjen’s hand. The sword twirled through the air for about ten yards. It landed point first into the clay, digging a divot before flipping over and landing.

Cimozjen looked at his numb hand. “Blessed Host, that hurt,” he said.

He feinted for his sword. The bugbear swung at his back to fell him as he ran, but he ducked under the whistling blade and doubled back for his staff.

He snatched it up and ran to the center of the arena. The bugbear cagily stayed between him and his sword. Cimozjen shifted his staff to his left hand and drew his dagger from the small of his back. “Here we go,” he muttered.

The bugbear closed, his large hands twisting on the haft of his weapon.

With an efficient little flip of the wrist, Cimozjen reversed his grip in the dagger, holding it point-down for a quick slash-and plunge. He lashed out, aiming to slash across the front of the bugbear’s throat, then reverse direction and stick the blade in behind the beast’s jugular, but in that split second the bugbear’s powerful hand
let go of his axe and seized Cimozjen’s wrist in a grip like iron.

Cimozjen’s eyes went wide. With his left hand, he struck the bugbear about the head and shoulders, but the angle was all wrong, and the blows, while loud, availed him not.

The bugbear twisted Cimozjen’s wrist over, then he dropped his axe and pried the blade from the Karrn’s hand. He turned his shoulder and used his weight to drive Cimozjen to the ground.

With his staff, Cimozjen tried to strike the bugbear the harder, but lying on his back robbed his blows of power. The bugbear shifted his grip and grabbed Cimozjen by the throat, using his knees and elbows to keep him pinned. Cimozjen drew up his right hand and clenched it over his heart. “No! Please!” he screamed. His terrified voice sounded alien to his ears.

“It is time for you to pray to the Host,” said the bugbear. The creature glanced down and saw the small hole in Cimozjen’s chain shirt where Jolieni’s blade had nearly skewered him. He maneuvered Cimozjen’s dagger into position. Cimozjen struck the bugbear again and again with the staff in his left hand, but despite his fear, he knew he could not do enough damage to stop the blade.

Murmuring a frantic prayer for salvation, Cimozjen felt his own blade pierce his skin, then slide into his chest.

“Ooohhhhh,” said Rophis with mock pity as the bugbear drove the dagger into Cimozjen’s chest up to the hilt. He poured out the rest of his wine on the floor, spattering the stone with red. “I guess that’s that.”

Cimozjen fought the return of consciousness. He fought against the rising awareness of pain, the disorientation that
muddled his brain, the stench that assailed his nose, but he had to yield before the persistent awakening.

He opened his eyes, and found himself face to face with a dead man, open blank eyes staring through him into eternity. Is that me? he thought. Then he saw the small dragonhawk emblem on the front of the man’s helmet, and he remembered him. He remembered seeing that look on the man’s face as Cimozjen’s dagger slipped between the plates of his mail and into his heart, the look of surprise, dismay, betrayal, defeat. His mind began to piece things back together, unfolding the memories of the last stand of the Iron Band.

He moaned softly, an indulgence he granted himself, an admission of the aches that held his body and by no means a plea for help. How he’d managed to remain alive, he had no idea. Perhaps he had been struck across the helmet, or perhaps a horse had knocked both him and his final victim down. It mattered little. He was alive.

Slowly he raised his head. Viewed from the ground, the battlefield was an endless badlands of broken armor and broken bodies, the only vegetation the blades and spears that rose from the carnage where they had been planted. Overhead, the sky grew gradually darker as the sun sank toward the horizon.

“Mozji …” said a voice, so weakly it was almost a whimper.

Cimozjen turned his head to see Kraavel lying some five feet away, clutching a wad of bloody cloths to his abdomen just below the ribs, pressing it tight with both hands. His face was ashen and drawn.

“Mozji,” he gasped, “it won’t stop bleeding. Heal me.”

Cimozjen turned his head to scan the area. A few Aundairian litter crews worked the battlefield, looking for the injured. Nearby, a pair of desultory spearman stalked about, searching the field. As Cimozjen watched, they stopped. One of them nudged something with his boot, then the other plunged his spear downward. A hand briefly shot up from the ground, then fell limp. The Aundairians continued their hunt, drawing closer
to where the two Karrns lay. Dread seized Cimozjen’s heart.

He looked back to Kraavel. “Lie still!” he whispered. “Play dead!” Cimozjen clutched his holy symbol, concealed beneath his body, with his right hand.

“But Mozji,” pleaded Kraavel, “the bleeding, it—”

“Let them pass by, and then I’ll heal you! Just hold on for a few moments!” He didn’t mention—couldn’t admit, not aloud—that he feared the Aundairians might stab him as he lay there, and he wanted to save his healing for himself, just in case. He didn’t want to die, not here, not like that, not stabbed to death while feigning to be a corpse. He felt the fear, he felt the dishonor, and he was ashamed.

“Mozji, I’m so cold …”

“Hsst!”

Cimozjen lay still, one eye peering through the crook of his dead foe’s arm to watch the progress of the Aundairian spearmen. He steeled his mind, bracing himself to feel a stab wound, willing himself not to react to the pain, preparing his soul to pray for his healing even as the cruel blade was withdrawn from his torso. Concealed beneath his prone body, the telltale glow of his holy symbol would not be noticed, and he might survive the encounter.

The Aundairians moved past, never closer than thirty paces to one side. Cimozjen heard them talking quietly, their accented words a strange murmur in the settling evening.

After they passed, after the tension eased from his joints and limbs, Cimozjen began to move, carefully, quietly. He found his dirk still embedded in the chest of his foe and gripped it, then crawled stealthily over to where Kraavel lay.

“Hsst! Kraavel!” he whispered. “They’re gone!” He pushed Kraavel over to get a better look at the wound, but his friend lay limp. His undamaged eye was dilated, staring nowhere. His half-open lips looked faintly blue.

As the sun set over the last battlefield of the Iron Band, Cimozjen stared into the face of his friend, abandoned by an act
of cowardice to die a cold and lonely death.

“I am so sorry, my friend,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.” He began to weep, silently. “And I swear, never, ever again.”