There was one other door in the room, a large, heavy door eight feet tall and five feet wide. Along the wall beside the door stood a man with a tin whistle and a quillboard and a quartet of solidly built, armored men bearing short pole arms with blunt forked-tipped ends.
Cimozjen turned in a slow circle, trying to get himself oriented, figure out what was going on.
“Haven’t seen you before,” lisped a hobgoblin, thumping Cimozjen on the shoulder. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the talk. “I’m surprised you don’t look more nervous.” He held out a hand. “I’m Tholog.”
Cimozjen clasped his hand and noted that his grip was steady and strong. “Cimozjen Hellekanus, at your service. Glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Who are you up against?”
“I’m sure I do not know,” said Cimozjen, still slightly bewildered.
The hobgoblin snuffled, which Cimozjen took to be a laugh. “If you didn’t issue a challenge, then it’s Traveler’s draw for you. Hope it doesn’t pair you off with Ripfist or the Black Shield. Either of them, and you’re meat.”
“Issue a cha-?” Cimozjen narrowed his eyes. “Minrah,” he said darkly.
“Minrah? Don’t know her. But I’m sure you’ll do fine. You’ve got a warrior’s look about you, and you’re a lot calmer than most newcomers. Most have a sort of desperate look about them. Or eager, and that’s worse.”
The noise in the room grew to that of a crashing sea. The hobgoblin looked like he was going to say something else, but just closed his mouth and patted Cimozjen on the shoulder.
The man against the wall consulted his quillboard and raised the whistle to his lips. He piped a clarion and shouted, “Nelter! Let’s go!”
A halfling emerged from the corner of the room and swaggered to the door. Tholog nudged Cimozjen and gestured to the small warrior with a smirk. Cimozjen saw that despite the overconfident gait, the halfling was drumming his fingers on his thigh. One of the armored men opened the large door, and even more sound washed in through the opening. It was the sound of cheering. The halfling stalked out the door, and a loud voice boomed out, cutting through the roar and proclaiming, “Nelter Toothrider, challenger!”
The door closed up behind him.
Tholog nudged Cimozjen again, and pointed to a row of benches that ran along the wall that flanked the door. Cimozjen twisted his face to show his lack of understanding, but Tholog walked over and stood on one of the benches, bringing his face up to the level of some small windows set into the wall. Cimozjen followed and climbed up on the bench beside him.
The halfling stood to one side of a beaten-clay arena defensively swinging a tangat, a small, heavy sword with a blade curved marginally less than a scimitar. In his off hand he held a boomerang. His light scale armor glittered in the glow of many lights.
Across the arena, a human stood. He was clad only in worn peasant’s garb-a sleeveless tunic, pants that frayed to an end just below his knee, simple leather shoes. He looked like he had scraps of cloth tied about his hands and another scrap tied as a headband. He stood as if awaiting something, swaying slightly, looking about at the crowd. He seemed not to notice Nelter at all.
Tholog nudged Cimozjen, and pointed to the human. “Bad draw,” he shouted.
The crowd was roaring, so Cimozjen held up his palms to ask why.
Tholog leaned very close to Cimozjen’s ear. “That’s Ripfist,” he said loudly, enunciating every word carefully. “Need a fast feint, or you die. Watch.”
Cimozjen watched as Nelter edged toward the apparently defenseless human along a long arcing path. He waited until his Ripfist had turned his head away, then let fly with his boomerang. The weapon spun in, curving around behind Ripfist, yet as it drew close, the human spun and swatted the weapon aside with his hand. He turned back around, scanning the entire crowd, his brow furrowed in consternation.
“It’s strange,” yelled Tholog with a grin. “It’s like he’s always half asleep.”
The halfling pulled a small shield from his back and strapped it to his arm. Then he closed in with his shield in front and his tangat concealed behind it. As Nelter drew closer, Ripfist finally seemed to take notice of him, and watched passively as the halfling stepped into striking distance.
Nelter’s step grew jittery. Cimozjen saw his feet shuffling with nerves. Then, at once, he pulled his shield aside and thrust with the point of his tangat.
Ripfist reacted with blinding speed. He pushed his hip to the left, barely evading the attack. Then he grabbed Nelter’s sword hand with his left hand and twisted it up and over, putting the halfling into a joint lock. With his right, he speared his victim in the esophagus, then released the sword arm.
Choking, Nelter dropped his sword as he reached for his throat. Ripfist smacked his hands on the halfling’s ears, rupturing the eardrums, then, with his thumbs, he gouged out the hapless fighter’s eyes. With his hands thus firmly gripping both sides of Nelter’s skull, he kicked up with his knee and smashed the halfling’s nose onto it.
Ripfist shoved Nelter to the ground and vaulted over him, a spinning near-somersault that sent his legs flying through elegant and dangerous arcs. Ripfist quickly spun as if expecting unseen enemies, then grabbed Nelter’s chin and head and turned his head completely around, severing the neck.
Nelter flopped face first onto the clay arena. Or, Cimozjen noted, it would have been face first if his head weren’t so out of position.
For a moment, a dead silence reigned.
Then the crowd erupted in wild cheering. Ripfist shuffled around, the now-familiar look of consternation on his face.
Tholog slapped Cimozjen across the top of his arm. “Too obvious,” he said. “Too slow.”
Cimozjen nodded, but not in response to Tholog. He nodded because he finally realized the extent of the fights. As he’d feared, House Ghallanda had never delivered the prisoners commended to their safekeeping. But rather than just pitting prisoners against each other for sport, they allowed headstrong veterans and would-be warriors to challenge them. By keeping the elite warriors from every nation, Ghallanda made the duels a daunting, exciting task, but, with gambling, one that could pay off handsomely if a challenger won.
House Ghallanda, of course, won either way.
Cimozjen studied Ripfist as an unarmed boy gently led the monk from the arena. He looked at his appearance, his rags. He was definitely a prisoner as Torval had been. And while Cimozjen was too late to save his friend, there were still some he could save-Ripfist stood as testimony to that-and he could see to it that whichever members of House Ghallanda had perpetrated this crime against the Code of Galifar faced justice for their heinous deeds.
He smiled coldly. “This should make for a good story, Minrah,” he muttered.
He turned away from the window and hopped off the bench. First to the Sentinel Marshals, then to the Crown. And then to post a note to Theyedir once it was all done, thanking him for being an instrumental link in the chain. And finally, back home to the land he loved to resume his search for the woman he loved.
He walked across the room toward the exit. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he abruptly found his way barred by two of the guards, their unusual forked weapons crossed to block the door.
“No one leaves once the arena opens,” said the guard. “House laws.”
“But I have to-”
“Slop bucket’s over there,” said the other guard.
“You misunderstand,” said Cimozjen, “I was just-”
“No exceptions!” said the first guard, who shoved Cimozjen back into the room.