The Reign Of Istar (5 page)

“For speaking out?” Arryl realized his voice had risen. He glanced around, but everyone
else was working hard to pretend they had not heard him. “I am only one man! What sort of
threat could I be?”

The half-elf grunted, began eating his gruel again. Between bites, he muttered, “You come
to a place few of your kind ever visit and you immediately question the ways of the
priesthood. Those who rule Istar have long seen the Solamnic Orders as rivals, jealous of
the priests' wealth and power.”

Tremaine recalled Brother Gurim's words at the inn. I PRAY FOR THE DAY WHEN THE KNIGHTHOOD
ONCE MORE TAKES ITS RIGHTFUL PLACE AS HIS HOLINESS'S TOOL....

“Brother Gurim may even think this a plot by your kind to undermine the authority of the
Holy One. That alone would be enough to have you executed,” added the half-elf.

It was such a preposterous thought that Arryl could not take it seriously. He decided it
was time to turn the conversation. “And you, Fen Sunbrother? What harm have you done that
sentences you to the arena?”

He had expected something on the order of thievery, but the half-elf shrugged and said,
“I'm a 'breed.' A mongrel.“ ”That is hardly a crime.” The half-elf turned his attention to the unappetizing gruel. “Welcome to Istar, Sir Knight.” *****

Another day dawned. Arryl refused to take the sword Sylverlin handed to him. Sylverlin
taunted, jeered, insulted him. The knight ignored him.

Nelk watched in silence.

Sylverlin shoved the knight a couple of times, but did him no harm. Tremaine wondered at
Nelk's ploy. It would have been simple enough to execute the knight, but someone appeared
to want more. Someone wanted Arryl to fight in the arena. He thought he understood. If he
gave in, it would be as great a victory for his captor as if he HAD died in battle. It
would mean that Gurim had broken the knight, could claim he was weak.

Arryl had no intention of bowing to the will of the senior inquisitor.

Eventually Nelk sent Sylverlin off to instruct some of the gladiators in the finer points
of swordplay. The snakelike man was showing them how to PRETEND to strike an opponent.
None of the veteran gladiators wanted to accidentally die or kill one of their comrades
during tournament combat. The prisoners, of course, had no choice. They could only hope to
survive long enough to either win their freedom or be offered a place in the tournament
combats.

“This will avail you naught, Solamnian,” said Nelk, glancing at the sword.

“I will not fight. Execute me if you will, but I will not go against the Oath and the
Measure by fighting for the pleasure of others.”

Nelk laughed. “Do they teach such arrogance in the knighthood or is it something you were
born with?” Arryl refused to respond. The elf stepped closer, his voice lowered. “You WILL
fight in the Games, Knight! Listen to me! I had hoped you would not force me to this, but
I want you to know that - ”

“Nelk!” Sylverlin shouted. “Spectators!” With his blade, he pointed to their right.

Brother Gurim was once again in the stands. The hood covered his unsightly features, but
Arryl had now learned to look for the gloves. Brother Gurim gestured to Nelk.

The maimed elf gave Arryl a long, intense look and whispered, “You may have lost your last
chance, human fool!”

Nelk and Sylverlin went over to talk with Brother Gurim. The two had barely departed when
Fen Sun-brother and the boy, struggling beneath weaponry enough to arm a legion, joined
the knight. Arms full, the boy smiled cautiously at Tremaine, who nodded in return.

“What did the Cursed One want of you?” Fen asked. Arryl's brow knitted. “Cursed One?” "You
don't know what 'Nelk' means in Elvish, do you?

Never mind. Did he threaten to have you beaten?“ ”He said nothing of that, but I think
something is going to happen soon.“ The half-elf shook his head. ”And you'll just let it happen to you! You'll take their punishment... or the axe if they decide you're not worth the
time. Mark me, Tremaine. Brother Gurim has let you live this long for a reason. He has a
reputation for playing games with his victims."

“Is he really that bad?” the boy asked shyly. It was the first time Arryl had heard him
talk. “But he's a cleric!”

“Yes, he is,” Sunbrother snarled. “So?”

“Do not frighten him unnecessarily,” the knight warned.

“You there, BREED!” One of Sylverlin's trusted gladiators struck Fen on the side of the
head. “The guards don't like quiet talk! Get movin'. Arack'll count all those swords
before he lets you back out of the storeroom!”

Fen Sunbrother staggered beneath the blow, grimaced, and moved on, his younger companion
struggling to keep up. Tremaine thought over the half-elf's warning, but remained unmoved.
He could and would continue to resist, despite whatever punishment Nelk or - more likely -
Sylverlin decided to mete out.

Arryl stared at the cleric, trying to will the man to meet his gaze. Not once, however,
did Gurim glance at him. The inquisitor knew the knight was watching him, was deliberately
ignoring him. Arryl felt his temper rise. The cleric was baiting him, and it was working.

The conversation between the gladiators and the cleric was short, which might have been good or might have been bad. Nelk and Sylverlin returned
to the field. Brother Gurim, accompanied by his two large shadows, departed the arena.
Nelk's countenance was carefully indifferent. Sylverlin gave Arryl a serpentine grin.

Nelk did not talk to the knight again that day. No one spoke to Tremaine or asked him to
pick up the sword. A decision had been made, obviously, and the instructors were only
waiting for the proper moment to carry it out.

That night, Arryl Tremaine made his peace with Paladine. He did not expect to live out the
morrow.

*****

Arryl was certain of his fate when the groups were rearranged. The half-elf, the boy, and
most of the veteran gladiators were sent to the opposite end of the arena in order to
commence with a series of practice duels. Nelk, Arryl, and a much smaller but distinct
group remained in the area where the knight had stood the day before. Nelk was instructing
the group in the uses of a mace against a sword. He seemed preoccupied. Tremaine guessed
something of far greater import had possession of the elf's thoughts.

Nelk ignored Arryl, save to tell him where to stand. From his vantage point, the knight
could see clearly the elaborate box set aside for the Kingpriest. Fen had informed him
that the Kingpriest seldom appeared at the Games, but that other high-ranking clerics
often sat in the box.

He was not very surprised, then, when Brother Gurim and his two acolytes entered the box
only a couple of hours into the day's training.

The senior inquisitor seated himself in the very center of the box and, looking rather
bored, settled himself to observe the practice. His hood had been pulled back. As with the
day before, he seemed to pay no attention to Arryl. The cleric was intent on watching
Sylverlin's group.

Nelk ordered one of his subordinates to take over. His eyes flashed to Brother Gurim, then
to Arryl. The maimed elf, mace still in hand, walked slowly over to the knight, who
regarded the elf with cool disdain.

“I tried to warn you,” Nelk said in a low voice. “He knew all along that it would be useless to threaten YOUR life, but he enjoys his own games
almost as much as he does those in the arena.”

“What do you mean?” Tremaine frowned, convinced it was a trick.

“One way or another, he will make you do what he wishes, no matter how many lives it
costs.” He glanced in Sylverlin's direction.

Arryl understood. Fear gripped him. He stared at the large group on the opposite end of
the field. The gladia tors clustered about, staring at a body lying on the ground.

“Sometimes,” Nelk was saying, “there are those who do not make it to the Games.”

THE BOY! was Arryl's first thought.

“Blessed Paladine!” He started to run, but the elf's foot tripped him up.

Arryl tried to regain his feet, but found the hooked and jagged head of the elf's mace
against his throat.

“It's already too late, Sir Knight. It was too late before I even started to speak.” Nelk
stepped back and allowed Arryl to rise. Several gladiators from Sylverlin's group were
heading toward them, carrying a limp form.

“It seems there's been another training accident,” Sylverlin shouted jovially.

The victim was not, as Arryl had feared, the boy.

“Fen Sunbrother,” he murmured. Part of the half-elf's body had been covered by an old,
stained cowhide, but blood had already seeped through it. Arryl guessed he had died
instantly.

Nelk called out, “What happened?”

“What always 'appens?” retorted the lead gladiator, a grizzled bear of a man with scars
all over his arms and face. “ 'e fairly threw 'imself on the blade! 'e was warned about
movin' like that, but 'e wouldn't listen!” As an afterthought, the bulking figure added,
“Master Sylverlin couldn't 'elp but run 'im clean through.”

SYL VERLIN!

The head of Nelk's mace rested, as if by accident, on Arryl's shoulder. The knight took
the hint and watched in impotent rage as the gladiators carried the body from the field.
Tremaine's gaze shifted to where the senior inquisitor sat. For the first time, Brother
Gurim stared back.

“Accidents could happen at any time,” Nelk was saying casually, “especially to those who are not familiar with weapons. Take the boy, for
instance....”

The knight turned sharply. “You wouldn't!”

“HE would,” the elf replied, indicating Brother Gurim. “Can you stand by and let others
die because of your stubbornness?”

The Oath and Measure of the knighthood said otherwise. To allow others to die in his place
would be tantamount to cowardice.

“The boy can be saved,” Nelk said softly. “Brother Gurim wants you, not him.”

To prove that a cleric could make a Solamnic Knight yield his principles. To make a knight
bow to the cleric's will. Brother Gurim's countenance might be expressionless, but his
eyes were not. The senior inquisitor would order the boy's death if Arryl rejected his
demands.

Arryl turned away, faced Nelk. “What will happen to the boy?” the knight asked.

“A mix-up. He should have been sent to work cleaning the temple floors for a month in
order to make his penance. These things happen.” Nelk shrugged. “Sometimes the mistakes
are rectified, sometimes not.”

HOLY ISTAR! Arryl thought bitterly. There was no choice. The Oath and Measure demanded he
protect the innocent from harm. “I agree, providing you personally guarantee the boy's
life.”

“It will be guaranteed. I swear to that. You have not dealt with the eccentricities of the
inquisitor as I have. He will be happy to give the boy back his life, if only to prove how
benevolent he can be.”

There was relief in Nelk's eyes, a strange thing, the knight noted. The elf removed the
mace from its resting place and, turning it upside down, sank the head into the dirt.

It was a signal, a signal of Arryl's defeat. The moment the mace touched the ground, the
inquisitor rose and departed the arena. No backward glance, no lingering. Brother Gurim
had seen his adversary bend knee to him and that was all the cleric wanted. For now.

The maimed elf smiled. “Pick up your sword and join us. I want to see what you can do.”

Tremaine knelt and picked up the sword that had been handed him each day. They will see
what I can do, he vowed. He had been forced to this decision, but now that the barrier had been breached, he
had no intention of holding back. The gladiators would see what it was like to face a true
knight.

Brother Gurim would see what being a Knight of Solamnia truly meant.

*****

Nelk made certain Arryl was present when the city guard marched the boy away. It took some
time for the guard to explain to an annoyed Arack that there had been a mistake. The dwarf
evidently did not like mistakes. He lit into the hapless guard commander with a tongue
that lashed out as hard as his fists. Tremaine could see that Arack's anger was genuine.
This helped convince the knight that the boy would indeed receive lighter punishment.

“I gave you my word,” said Nelk.

It was on that same day, shortly after the boy's removal, that the swordmaster issued his
challenge to the knight.

Sylverlin watched the two duel with avid, jealous attention. He did not interrupt, but
stood patiently by. Nelk finally called a halt. “What is it you want, Sylverlin?”

The tip of the snaky human's sword pointed at the knight. “I've come for him. I need to
see if he'll be ready for the Games.”

Arryl, still burning over the half-elf's murder, started forward. Nelk darted between the
two.

“He'll be ready. I will see to him.”

“You?” Sylverlin scowled. “You're mistaken, friend Nelk. This one is definitely mine.”

“It is you who are mistaken, friend Sylverlin.”

Sylverlin glanced at the wary knight. “A pity,” he said, shrugging. “I'd hoped that our
blades might cross. Now, no such luck. You'll be dead before I get the chance.”

Arryl would have replied, but Nelk was quicker. He brought the mace around and pushed the
swordmaster's blade away. “Never wish ill, Sylverlin. The gods have a habit of returning
such wishes to their makers.”

The serpentine fighter laughed, bowed mockingly to the knight, and left without another
word. Arryl was barely able to restrain himself from charging after.

“He has marked you for his own sport. This changes everything,” Nelk muttered.

Tremaine studied the elf's features. A sense of foreboding washed over him as he noted his
companion's dark expression. “What do you mean?”

“Sylverlin has never really cared about those I choose to fight. But you, Knight, are
something special to him. He hates your kind and always has. He murdered the last knight
quickly enough. Some say he is one of your cast- offs. Who knows? The only man he wants to
fight more than you is me and that is forbidden to him. Sylverlin never argues with
Brother Gurim.”