“Yes, that’s right, Tholog.” The seneschal rose and walked slowly over, touching one finger to the side of his nose. “Didn’t we pay out against you last night?”
Tholog rubbed a hand self-consciously on the bandage over the base of his neck, where a wound, a good two fingers wide but merely skin-deep, marked the place where Cimozjen had stabbed him. “Uh, yes, you did,” he growled bitterly, “and that’s what I’m here for. I want to issue a challenge.”
“Looking for revenge, are we?”
“No,” said Tholog. “I’m still too weak for that. I lost a lot of blood. If I stand up too quickly, the darkness takes me.”
The seneschal leaned forward, hands clasped together over his heart. “Was the wound serious?”
“It should have been fatal. Cursed Karrn cheated me!” spat the hobgoblin. “Distracted me with talk of honor, then stabbed me in the neck as I was thinking. I cannot leave him unpunished. I want my vengeance now, but I don’t know when I’ll be strong enough to return.”
“That is a pity,” said the seneschal, looking truly compassionate. “You’ve been doing so well for us. And for yourself, of course. How is it then that we can help you?”
“I have someone I’d like to use as a stand-in for my revenge. I’ve found another fighter who’d be well suited to the arena, and I hope to make some money backing him with my wagers before everyone else figures out how good he is.”
“Do tell us of him.”
Tholog rubbed his wound again. “He’s a bugbear, mercenary from Darguun, and he’s a tough one, eager for a scrap.”
“Bugbear?” asked the seneschal. “I don’t believe we’ve ever seen one of them in our establishment.”
Tholog shrugged, then winced and clutched at his wound again. “I can’t speak for the whole race, but this one is pretty much the same height and build as a front-line warforged. Thank the Host for his fur, because he wears pretty much nothing but his armor. Saw him at a drunken brawl across town the other night. Took down several with nothing but his teeth and claws. When he was done, I hied off with him before the watch showed up. No sense in wasting a good warrior in the dungeons, right?”
The seneschal wrung his hands. “The creature sounds impressive indeed,” he said, “and the novelty could be good for business. You are aware that we do not normally allow third-party challenges, but since you were treated so unfairly in the previous fight, and since you’ve provided such good results for us over the last year, I suppose I will endorse your invitation. It’s too late to add anyone to the lists for tonight, but I can put your champion in for the morrow, if you’d like.”
“Thank you. Please pair him off against … grrh, I can’t remember his name. You know who I mean.”
The seneschal smiled. “Cimozjen, the Killer from Karrnath. I know him well. He’s already drawn quite a bit of betting activity for us. I am sure this match will do well for all of us.”
“Good.” Tholog put a small pouch on the counter. “Put this on Cimozjen … to die.”
“The man no one dares challenge, fighting by lot, Cimozjen Hellekanus, the Killer from Karrnath, defender!” boomed the voice.
Cimozjen ignored the boos and catcalls from the crowd. It was safe for cowards to berate a warrior when safely ensconced in the seats above the arena. He also tried to ignore the pangs of hunger that plagued his stomach, for the rations he’d been given since his capture were not quite enough to sate his appetite. No wonder Torval had looked so thin.
Instead of attending to distractions internal or external, Cimozjen prayed that Dol Dorn would allow him to prevail in this combat without taking a life.
Across the way, the door opened. Within was a shadowy shape, and, from his vantage point, Cimozjen could see that it had been contained within a large crate. He wondered how many others had watched Four step out of a crate just like that.
“And, by special request,” boomed the voice, “a new creature enters the arena! We’ve managed to procure, at great expense and at the risk of losing our immortal souls in the Karrnathi bureaucracy, a real Karrnathi zombie!”
The crowd cheered.
“Who will it be, people? Which vile spawn will prevail, the living or the dead? Cimozjen favored, four to one!”
Four to one, thought Cimozjen, with no small sense of pride. Pretty good odds. I wonder what Four’s odds were like.
The zombie stalked out of its crate, and suddenly Cimozjen had the answer. The roaring crowd. The lone voice, cutting through the noise, calling the odds, dragging out the pronouncement to stoke the excitement. Four to one. Ffourrr-to-oooonne! It was the noise the warforged had imitated for them. How suitable that it had served as the seed for his name.
The zombie closed like a seasoned warrior, its legs in a wide, well balanced stance. It kept its center of gravity low, and held its shield and sword to the sides, ready for action. No mortal could maintain such an aggressive stance for long without tiring. It was one of the advantages the zombie had. That, and the zombie couldn’t bleed to death.
Its eyes glowed with a malevolent fire, a glint as of the gaze of Khyber himself. They shone starkly against its leathery skin, blackened and desiccated by the alchemical reagents that helped give it motility. It bared its teeth and began to close.
Giving ground to buy time, Cimozjen watched the undead creature, studying its armor, the tatters of its uniform, and the cut of its facial features. Well, he thought, at least it’s no one I know.
He also realized that Dol Dorn had answered his prayer. Only one life was at risk this evening.
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
The Last, Desperate Act
Zol, the 3rd day of Aryth, 998
As Minrah opened the door to the Dragon’s Flagons, the hot, noisy air gushed out into the chill autumn evening. She took a step back, wondering if that was what war was like-sticky, loud, surrounded by violent people who smelled of sweat and other things best left unmentioned. She steeled her resolve-made possible by the fact that Four entered in front of her-and plowed her way into the thick atmosphere.
As they had discussed, Four went and stood in the corner. Aside from making him feel comfortable, it also gave him the best view of the tavern and kept him out of harm’s way. Minrah stood beside him for a while, watching the business.
“Do my eyes deceive, or are the thugs swarming more than on other nights?”
“There are more people here,” said Four. “Almost half again as many as the most we have previously seen.”
“Something’s going on,” said Minrah. “Well, that will possibly allow me to complete my task a tad more readily. Now to find my target. Keep an ear angled for me, Four. Or whatever you have that hears sounds.”
As crowded as it was, Minrah was forced to move among the patrons to find the person she was after. And, after being jostled, cursed at, mocked, lewdly propositioned, and doused with a spilled tankard nigh full of cheap ale, she at last found the person she sought.
“Boniam,” she said with a smile far sunnier than her heart truly was. “Would you … permit me to sit at your table?”
He gestured grandly to the empty seat with his mug. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Minrah sat demurely. “Well … I don’t see Jolieni here tonight …”
He canted his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed. And we won’t be seeing her here again, more’s the pity.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” said Minrah with a compassionate look. “What … precisely happened?”
Boniam gave her a strange look. “Your friend killed her, didn’t you know?”
Minrah gaped.
“That’s not entirely accurate, I suppose,” he said. “Rather Jolieni used your friend to kill herself. He tried to get her to yield.”
“I–I’m so sorry,” said Minrah.
“It happens,” said Boniam. “As a soldier, you accept that. And with her, the way her heart was burning, it was bound to happen sooner than later. In fact, it may have been the best thing for her, to end it all quickly, rather than get eaten up from within with your own blood poisoning your soul and killing you a day at a time.”