The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron (40 page)

A Crash of Iron
Wir, the 4th day of Aryth, 998

P
omindras rose. “Lord, I should be going. I’m due on the clay shortly.”

“You enjoy that, don’t you?” asked Rophis, slurping away the last of his wine. “Who is it this time?”

“Some stiff-necked youngster who wants my shield,” he said as he carefully hefted his prize possession by the straps and slung it over his back. The gold rim shone beautifully, while the black boss remained as black as midnight. “He challenged me, can you believe it? Bah. Odds are as long as I’ve seen them, but I’ll still chain myself up, just in case the lad gets a lucky strike in.”

“Pomindras, while you’re down there, sign that bugbear up with the family. I liked his style.”

“If you insist, lord,” he said. He picked up his sword by the scabbard and trotted to the stairwell that led to the arena.

The bugbear looked around. A sea of faces—yelling, cheering, clapping—surrounded him. It was a new experience. He looked
down at the thin blade in his hand. It was so small compared to his great axe, but in the right hands, just as deadly. Perhaps even deadlier. It was all so confusing, the noise, the dealings, everything but the arena. For a moment, he wished he were home.

One of the doors to the arena opened and a trio of workers stepped out, unarmed and dressed in simple peasants’ attire. They walked over to Cimozjen’s body. One hand was still clenched over his heart, and the other still tightly held to his staff. Blood trickled down the links of chain mail to form a small pool on the clay.

One of the workers continued to walk across the plaza to pick up Cimozjen’s sword. The other two moved to recover his body. They each grabbed one heel and started pulling, and as they dragged him across the field, friction slowly drove his arms over his head. It almost looked like he was cheering another victory.

“Hey,” said the trailing worker, the sword slung easily over his shoulder. “He ain’t lettin’ go of his stick!” He chuckled a little at the oddity.

One of the other workers called back to him over his shoulder, saying, “That’s why it’s called a ‘death grip.’ He’ll drop it soon enough.”

They dragged Cimozjen’s body out of the arena. The third worker trailed close behind with the sword, and as he grabbed the latch to close the door behind him, he noticed that the bugbear had followed them. “Hey,” he said. “You’re supposed to go out that other door.” He pointed across the arena with his empty hand, then started to close the door.

The bugbear reached out and grabbed the edge of the door.

“Hey!” yelled the worker. He raised his voice and spoke more slowly. “Go to that door. Understand? Not here. There.” He pointed again. “That door. Go. This door, no!” He took a moment to turn to his companions. “Hey. Did you hear that? I rhymed!”

The bugbear yanked the door open and stepped in.

“Hey!” yelled the worker. “I said the other door!”

The bugbear closed the door behind him.

“Now look, you nit-brained—”

The bugbear kneed the man as hard as he could in the gut. The worker gagged with the impact, nigh to vomiting, and doubled over, whereupon the bugbear slammed one heavy fist onto his back just between his shoulders.

Cimozjen jerked into motion. Still clutching the staff tightly in his hand, he lanced it like a spear at one of the people dragging him and smacked him at the base of the skull. Stunned, the man let go of Cimozjen’s leg. The other turned. Surprised to see the corpse moving in such an animated way, he also dropped Cimozjen’s foot in surprise.

Cimozjen, in an awkward position at best, nonetheless swung his staff to strike the worker on the knee, temporarily hobbling him.

The bugbear leaped over Cimozjen and grabbed the two startled workers. They clearly had no fighting experience, and in a few swift breaths the bugbear had them both pinned beneath his burly arms. He squeezed the air from them until they both went limp, then banged their heads together a few times for good measure.

The bugbear turned to see Cimozjen had regained his feet. “That was easy,” he said.

Cimozjen laughed darkly. “For you, maybe, but I was the one that got stabbed.”

“I have been damaged many times.”

“That’s true,” said Cimozjen, “but I think it feels different to creatures like us, Four.” He picked up his sword. “Got my knife?”

Four handed Cimozjen his blade, then looked at his extended arm. “How do I get rid of this fur?” he said. “I do not like it. It is not me.”

“It’s just a visual illusion, Four. Your body still feels the same beneath it. It’ll wear off sooner or later. I hope.” Cimozjen sniffed and looked around. “So how do we get out of here?”

“We do not,” answered Four.

“What is going on?” said Rophis. “If they need to fight, put them in the pit!”

He stood and turned to find the source of the ruckus that had seized an entire section of seats somewhere off to his right.

There, near the entrance, it seemed a number of the audience had broken into a brawl. He strode toward the disturbance, waving several house guards to follow. Curiously, the crowd seemed to be evading the mischief, instead of feeding it.

But then he saw two unexpected things that put everything into perspective.

He saw the hobgoblin that Cimozjen had bested three days previous, and beside him the lad who owed them a few years in the arena after his evisceration. And he saw the rich blue tabards of the Aundairian soldiery.

They were forcing their way in to the arena, arresting as many people as they could and driving the rest before them like cattle. The two turncoat pit fighters were gesturing in Rophis’s direction, searching the crowd for familiar faces.

Then the hobgoblin locked eyes with him.

Damn my height! thought Rophis. He turned, shielded his face as best he could, and grabbed one of the guards nearest him. “Destroy the evidence!” he ordered. “Now!”

He turned and began pushing his way through the audience, hoping that he could effect his escape before panic seized the crowd—or at least before the Aundairians captured him.

Pomindras moved swiftly through the passageways beneath the audience’s seating, heading around the curve of the arena for the fighters’ exit. He muttered to himself, wondering why Rophis would want to contract a bugbear when they were as unreliable as a goblin and as smelly as a Karrnathi zombie.

Thus preoccupied, he did not notice that someone was waiting for him as he entered one of the open areas that dotted the outside of the arena.

Four, still clad in the last fading vestiges of the illusory bugbear trappings, stepped out and swung his battle-axe at Pomindras, aiming squarely at the ebon shield that covered his back, intending to cleave it in two—and, with the same powerful blow, Pomindras’ spine.

Somehow the impact was dramatically off; The blow rocked Pomindras’s shield and sent him tumbling, yet at the same time it cracked the haft of Four’s weapon, and the shield remained unmarred.

Pomindras turned his fall into a roll and came up quickly. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and slung the scabbard to the side, baring the blade. Alarm and confusion held his face for just a moment, until he saw Four and Cimozjen. “You,” he said, looking at Cimozjen. “Alive? How?”

He turned his gaze to Four and narrowed his eyes. “A glamer? You infiltrated us!” He backed up toward the hallway behind him, looking to narrow the area he had to defend. “That whole fight was mocked? That was a piece of work. I thought he really stabbed you to death.”

“In truth, he almost did,” said Cimozjen. “I prayed for healing as he withdrew the blade. That’s why he had to kill me with my knife instead of his axe. We needed his body to block your view of it. I used the same trick to spare Tholog a few days ago.”

Pomindras shucked his shield around and gripped it. It wasn’t as maneuverable as it would have been if he’d had it properly strapped, but it was more serviceable than nothing. “Too clever by half,” he said, “but you’re still not getting out of here alive.” He started backing quickly down the hallway.

Cimozjen chased after him. Four remained where he was, inspecting the odd angle at which his weapon had cracked.

Pomindras backpedaled, then turned to run.

“Coward,” said Cimozjen. “I’ll gladly see you dead with your
sole wound to the back.”

Pomindras sneered. “Bravely spoken for someone with armor,” he said.

“I have naught but a staff for a shield,” said Cimozjen. “You’re well rested and perhaps ten years younger than I, yet you show the courage of a pock-marked adolescent and the honor of a febrile kobold. You attacked me in the streets with five others, yet fled the field ere your sword tasted the air. Go. Run. Get help. We’ll see whether the dawn still bears tales of honor for the ring fighter called the Black Shield. That is you, correct? Or are you just his shield boy?”

“I had to flee earlier, because you had me outnumbered. Damn cowardly thugs.” Pomindras gave a lopsided smile. “But in this hallway, there’s just room enough for you and me. Unless you’re going to make your pet warforged to do your work for you.”

Cimozjen called back, saying “Four, Pomindras is mine. Cover my back.”

“There is something you should know,” said Four. “My axe cracked the wrong way. I have no explanation for it.”

“It’ll have to wait until later, Four,” said Cimozjen. “I have someone here who wants to kill me, and I’d rather not indulge him.”

Pomindras worked his arm into his shield straps. “I thought I’d missed the pleasure of killing you, but you’ve just made it all the sweeter.” He dropped into a combat stance.

Cimozjen gave the Rekkenmark salute then readied himself, metal-shod staff angled backward and sword leveled for a thrust.

Pomindras took a low, wide stance and closed on Cimozjen crabwise. Seeing this, Cimozjen considered trying to wear the man down. A series of powerful overhand strikes on the shield would stress the knee, slowing him and forcing him to change his stance. Unfortunately, it would also take time and make a lot of noise, both of which would increase the chance of reinforcements coming. Instead, Cimozjen thought to go straight for the kill.
With a low feint at the leg combined with a sweeping upward follow-through, Cimozjen could draw his attention low, and possibly also draw his shield down. A surprise cut to the head with the inside edge could be telling, especially since Pomindras wore no helmet.

Pomindras jumped forward, swinging his shield in front of him to conceal his attack, then yanked it aside and thrust with his sword. The attack was low, to Cimozjen’s surprise. He was caught raising his sword to parry, and was unable to reverse his momentum. Pomindras’s lunge caught Cimozjen in the joint of his hip. The blade hit hard, and with a flash of sparks several links of Cimozjen’s chain mail shattered and flew about the corridor. The blade bit into Cimozjen’s skin and scraped painfully across his hip bone.

Cimozjen gasped in pain as the sundered links skittered across the flagstone floor. His brow furrowed. “An enchanted blade?”

Pomindras chuckled.