Cimozjen turned and found that several of the other fighters were looking at him. Then someone grabbed his arm and turned him around. Cimozjen clenched his fist and cocked his arm for a strike, until he saw Tholog looming over him.
“Give it up,” the hobgoblin said. He ushered Cimozjen back toward the windows. “The only way out is through the arena. You’ll get over your jitters soon enough.”
Cimozjen started to say something, but Tholog cut him off. “No one gets to renege on a bet or a challenge. Bad for business. But relax, you’ll do fine.”
Cimozjen drew a deep breath as the crowd outside applauded another bloody match. “Six thanks to you, Minrah,” he cursed. “But seven thanks to the Host I came fully equipped.”
“Cimozjen Hellekanus! Let’s go!”
Cimozjen had long since shucked his oilcloth longcoat, folding it neatly and placing it, along with his haversack, in the care of the errand boy. He’d kept his tunic on to conceal his chain mail. His sword was sheathed at his side, and he grabbed his metal-shod staff as he stepped down from the viewing bench. Tholog gave him a friendly punch on the arm and a big lopsided grin.
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Cimozjen presented himself to the man with the whistle. Just as the door began to open, Tholog hustled over. “You drew the Hawk!” he yelled. “Fast, but weak arms!” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “Over the top! Over the top!”
Cimozjen stepped out of the door, and found himself on the clay arena floor. A veritable sea of faces surrounded him, yelling, taunting, fevered for blood.
Twenty-two years earlier:
Cimozjen stared across the battlefield at the Aundairian lines, yelling and banging their shields, massing for a new attack.
Next to him, Torval stirred. “Hey, Mozji,” he yelled, whapping Cimozjen on the shoulder. “Take a look at Kraavel’s eye!”
Cimozjen stepped around the massive Karrn, staggering slightly from exhaustion. “What about his-wow, that looks painful,” he said with an empathetic wince. Kraavel’s eyelid puckered inward and a swath of blood and ichors stained his cheek. “What happened?”
“Bah. Six-damned Aundairian arrow took it.”
“Do you want me to see if I can do something for it?”
“Naw,” said Kraavel with a grimace. “It won’t be bothering me for much longer, anyway.” He glanced up at the sun, still a few hours from setting. “I can endure it a while longer.”
“But it’s your eye,” said Cimozjen, concerned.
“Aw, I can see well enough to swing a flail,” said Kraavel, “and it looks like we’ll not be wanting for targets. Thank you, Mozji, but save your prayers for when it really matters.”
Cimozjen gave a long and hearty laugh, a welcome release of stress and tension. “You’re a good man, Kraavel, but I think nothing matters any more.”
“That’s true.”
Across the bloody battlefield, the Aundairian army began sounding their horns.
“We’d best get braced,” said Torval. “The moorhens are trying to bellows up their courage again.”
The Iron Band formed up anew, a thin wall of iron and bone fortified behind a rampart of Aundairian and Karrnathi dead. Their shields shone red, painted with the blood of the fallen, a dire warning to the enemy. They stood tall, defying their exhaustion, and began chicken-calling at the Aundairians-clucks, hoots, and catcalls deprecating the courage of their foes.
Torval glanced at Cimozjen as the Aundairians readied their charge. He grinned. “I suppose there are worse ways to die than standing next to a stinking oat herder like you, Mozji.”
“You’re a good man, Torval,” said Cimozjen. “Truly, it’s an honor to spend the rest of my life fighting next to you.” He chuckled. “And your chipmunk.”
With a yell, the Aundairians charged. The ground shook with their feet, and the air trembled with the noise.
Torval started swinging his flail in preparation. “I’ll bet I last longer than you, Mozji,” he said.
“Not a goblin’s chance,” yelled Cimozjen. “We’ll fight over it after we kill them all.”
Torval grinned. “Fair enough.”
Then all was iron, blood, and thunder.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Trapped
Wir, the 25th day of Sypheros, 998
A magically enhanced voice cut through the cheering crowd, “Cimozjen of Karrnath, challenger!”
Cimozjen looked across the arena at his opponent and his heart sank. He wasn’t fighting a prisoner, but another warrior. But what did that mean? And what were the rules? Certainly her propensity toward anger and the behavior she’d exhibited in the Dragon’s Flagons indicated that she might well fight to the death. He hoped to avoid that. Again he cursed Minrah for failing to give him even the slightest hint of her plan. He vowed he would never blindly trust her again.
He gritted his teeth and looked across the beaten clay as the booming voice spoke once more, saying, “Jolieni the Hawk, five to two!”
Cimozjen steeled himself to the unsavory task, hoping he could get out of this without making a grievous error. He drew his sword, raised it in the Rekkenmark salute, and murmured a quick prayer to Dol Dorn. Holding his staff like a walking stick, he closed in on his opponent.
Jolieni circled, taking elegant sidesteps and holding her slender blade in front of her, drawing small circles. She wore a hauberk of scale mail, and heavily studded leather covered her limbs. Long boots with an iron facing protected her shins, and a skull cap guarded her head, letting her hair flow freely. A disgusted sneer twisted her face beneath her unpleasant nose. Cimozjen was uncertain what exactly she found so repugnant.
Cimozjen closed the gap and struck. Jolieni parried, their swords clashing. Cimozjen struck again and again, testing her defenses and keeping his staff in front to block any counterattacks. After several sparring flurries, it was clear that she was fast, although it also appeared that Tholog might be right about her unimpressive arm strength.
He stepped back and circled, deciding on his best course of action. While an overhand attack was perfectly feasible, it had a greater chance of striking her head and possibly dealing an unintentionally lethal blow, either by cleaving her skullcap or landing at the base of her neck. He did not want to kill her. There was no call for that, no matter how unpleasant her demeanor might be.
Although, he reasoned, he could use his sword to wear her down and then his staff to beat her into submission. Somehow, that idea didn’t bother him in the slightest.…
Pomindras walked up to the most luxurious box overlooking the arena, a walled-off section with plush high-backed chairs upholstered with satin. A variety of hirelings ringed the box, the guards armed with magical short swords and the servants armed with the best tasty morsels and liqueurs.
Pomindras entered the box unchallenged and stepped over to the largest of the chairs. “You sent for me, my lord?” he asked.
His master glowered at his lieutenant, then pointed to the middle-aged man in the arena. “That man,” he said, his voice honed with displeasure. “He was announced as Cimozjen of Karrnath.”
“What?” Pomindras lunged to the front of the box and leaned over, gaping at the veteran sparring with Jolieni in the ring. He turned back to his master, pointing. “How-how did he get here?”
“The more salient question is why is he alive? I thought I tasked you to silence him.”
Pomindras gritted his teeth. “Several of our people tried to ambush him and his friends, lord, but he sniffed it out. The mage was ham-handed and alerted him. And the Karrn is a skilled armsman. He and his companions killed four and, um, the other two, they barely escaped with their lives.” He crossed his arms and turned back to the match. “But why is he here? Do you think he-?”