No, he had to hold on. He had to play his part and wait. He had an advantage that Torval didn’t. He had friends on the outside who knew his situation. Four hadn’t been allowed into the building, and hopefully Minrah had escaped their clutches as well. She was clever. All he had to do was wait until they figured out a way to set him free. Which, he admitted, might take weeks, even months.
In the meantime, he had to survive, and, to the best of his ability, avoid any more killing. He was here to free his fellow prisoners, not to murder them. And the other warriors, the ones who opted for this dangerous sport, they probably did not know that people like him were held in bondage.
For him to survive, though, he’d have to fight. He’d have to cause needless pain on people who knew not the extent of what they were doing or, worse yet, shared in his cruel fate. He’d have to do the bidding of his captors, or at least appear to be doing so … if there was truly any difference.
He hated the feeling of being trapped. He’d had the feeling before, prior to being captured, and it had not ended well then, either. At least this time he had a better inkling of what he needed to do to get out of the situation. Somehow he had to keep winning … without killing his opponents.
If he could help it.
He hung his head.
And there, thanks be to the Host, he saw his holy symbol still dangling about his neck. With a grim half smile, he grasped it in his right hand. And for the first time in twenty-two long years, he prayed for his own healing without a trace of guilt.
Pomindras snarled and tore the broadsheet from the pillar where it had been tacked. Ignoring the shouts of the other commoners nearby, he quickly folded it up and stormed away.
His fury propelled him to the walled compound that served as his family’s residences and halls of business. Guards opened the door for him that he might not have to break stride. His heavy boots clomped up the central stairway and down to the end of the wood-floored hallways until at last he reached the grand suite that overlooked the serene Aundair River.
He was admitted immediately.
A large, gilded desk polished to a mirror sheen dominated the room. Behind that desk sat a large overstuffed chair, so grand in design that it nearly rivaled a throne. At the moment, that throne showed its back to the door, turned as it was to face the panoramic windows that had been opened at the rear of the room. The view out the windows showed the dawn unfolding on the cityscape below and the countryside across the river.
Pomindras stepped into the suite and around the desk, stopping near the huge chair. He bowed to his master. “Something I think you should see, lord Rophis,” he said.
Rophis neither turned his head nor answered, but simply held out one hand.
Pomindras placed the broadsheet in his grasp, saying, “About halfway down, lord.”
Rophis unfolded the broadsheet and read.
Bound by Iron
A True Adventure in Betrayal, Murder,
and One Man’s Quest for Vengeance
Part the First
Scribed by Minrah Penwright, Who Has Seen All that Has Transpired and Swears to Its Veracity
This is a tale of sacrifice and loss, blood and woe, betrayal and redemption; and you, dear readers, may yet play a part in the final act in which, we all fervently hope, shall at last be had the wrathful vengeance for illicit wrongs done to untold innocents guilty of no crime other than wishing to be returned home after the armistice that concluded the Last War.
Our story, dear readers, begins some seventeen days prior to this, in the city of Korth, near the harbor on the left bank of the Karrn River …
Chapter TWENTY-THREE
The Dragon’s Trail
Sul, the 1st day of Aryth, 998
It was incongruous. If she were so meaningless, if she were the small insect she felt she was, why then should her heart pound so hard that she feared it might rattle the walls?
Minrah sat at the edge of a large, uncomfortable chair placed in the middle of a large, inhospitable room devoid of any other furniture. Exquisitely carved Eldeen darkwood paneling with delicate molding covered the walls. The immaculate floors were of polished pearlescent stone that seemed to glow with a gentle light, there being no other apparent explanation for the illumination in the room. Huge shields adorned with the Lyrandar family crest-the coiling tentacles of a kraken grasping at a perfect pearl-hung at the four corners of the room, and she was certain that the tentacles actually moved whenever she wasn’t looking at them. Even the frilled draperies strung along the ceiling were coiled and arranged to resemble the grasping, suction-cupped limbs. She wondered if they’d come to life were she to make some grievous error.
The chair was large enough that her feet didn’t quite reach the floor, which was itself unnerving. It made her feel even more like a child. Her toes tapped together and she pulled on her fingers, alternating hands obsessively.
“Is that a spell you are casting?” asked Four, peering over the back of the chair to watch her fidgeting hands.
“I wish it were,” said Minrah. “I’m just nervous. It took us almost two days to get this appointment, and I hope I didn’t shoot wild.”
“In my consideration, you presented your arguments quite well.”
“We’ll see.”
They waited some more in the large, empty, silent room.
“I hate this,” said Minrah.
“Hate what?”
“Waiting.”
“We have not been waiting long,” said Four.
“Not long? I’ll bet it’s been a bell, maybe two.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a long time!”
“You have never truly had to wait,” said Four. “I find the lack of stimulus to be peaceful.”
Minrah shifted to sneer at the warforged. “So you’re saying my talking is disrupting your relaxation?”
“Yes.”
She turned away and curled up in the chair. “Well, I am sooo sorry.”
Minrah waited some more, stewing. The knowledge that Four was settling back into a pleasant nothingness did nothing to improve her mood.
Finally, with the loud click of a heavy latch, the double doors at the far end of the room opened, admitting the Lyrandar representative Minrah had spoken to earlier. Minrah heard Four stiffen behind her, but thankfully he made no aggressive moves.
“We have reviewed your tale, Minrah,” said the Lyrandar.
“It’s not a tale. It’s all true, and I saw it with my own eyes.”
The Lyrandar held up one hand. “Permit me to rephrase. We have inspected the publications of the Chronicle for the twenty-seventh through today, and reviewed your contributions thereto. However, we find nothing in there that would justify opening hostilities between ourselves and another dragonmarked house, especially one as powerful and influential as Orien.”
Minrah sniffed and leaned forward, her hands on her knees and her elbows out confrontationally. “If you had listened to me, you’d have noticed that I did not ask you to do anything hostile to anyone. All I asked was that you provide benevolence and consideration for the Sentinel Marshals should House Orien decide to curtail their support. Which I expect they will do after the Marshals put an end to this ongoing travesty. In fact, the only thing stopping the Marshals from giving the Oriens a hard law-enforcing kick in the groin is fear of losing the mobility that Orien support grants them without something of equal value being provided by another means.”
The Lyrandar smiled. “We heard you the first time, Minrah. However, we wanted to ensure that you heard yourself. You have not asked us to initiate hostilities, nor will we. However, we will be more than happy to render whatsoever aid or assistance the Sentinel Marshals might require, and out of respect for the Code of Galifar, to do so without recompense. And if this should help us both to remove our individual obstacles, so much the better.”