Nelk ignored Arryl, save to tell him where to stand. From his vantage point, the knight could see clearly the elaborate box set aside for the Kingpriest. Fen had informed him that the Kingpriest seldom appeared at the Games, but that other high-ranking clerics often sat in the box.
He was not very surprised, then, when Brother Gurim and his two acolytes entered the box only a couple of hours into the day's training.
The senior inquisitor seated himself in the very center of the box and, looking rather bored, settled himself to observe the practice. His hood had been pulled back. As with the day before, he seemed to pay no attention to Arryl. The cleric was intent on watching Sylverlin's group.
Nelk ordered one of his subordinates to take over. His eyes flashed to Brother Gurim, then to Arryl. The maimed elf, mace still in hand, walked slowly over to the knight, who regarded the elf with cool disdain.
"I tried to warn you," Nelk said in a low voice. "He knew all along that it would be useless to threaten your life, but he enjoys his own games almost as much as he does those in the arena."
"What do you mean?" Tremaine frowned, convinced it was a trick.
"One way or another, he will make you do what he wishes, no matter how many lives it costs." He glanced in Sylverlin's direction.
Arryl understood. Fear gripped him. He stared at the large group on the opposite end of the field. The gladia tors clustered about, staring at a body lying on the ground.
"Sometimes," Nelk was saying, "there are those who do not make it to the Games."
The boy! was Arryl's first thought.
"Blessed Paladine!" He started to run, but the elf's foot tripped him up.
Arryl tried to regain his feet, but found the hooked and jagged head of the elf's mace against his throat.
"It's already too late, Sir Knight. It was too late before I even started to speak." Nelk stepped back and allowed Arryl to rise. Several gladiators from Sylverlin's group were heading toward them, carrying a limp form.
"It seems there's been another training accident," Sylverlin shouted jovially.
The victim was not, as Arryl had feared, the boy.
"Fen Sunbrother," he murmured. Part of the half-elf's body had been covered by an old, stained cowhide, but blood had already seeped through it. Arryl guessed he had died instantly.
Nelk called out, "What happened?"
"What always 'appens?" retorted the lead gladiator, a grizzled bear of a man with scars all over his arms and face. " 'e fairly threw 'imself on the blade! 'e was warned about movin' like that, but 'e wouldn't listen!" As an afterthought, the bulking figure added, "Master Sylverlin couldn't 'elp but run 'im clean through."
Sylverlin!
The head of Nelk's mace rested, as if by accident, on Arryl's shoulder. The knight took the hint and watched in impotent rage as the gladiators carried the body from the field. Tremaine's gaze shifted to where the senior inquisitor sat. For the first time, Brother Gurim stared back.
"Accidents could happen at any time," Nelk was saying casually, "especially to those who are not familiar with weapons. Take the boy, for instance…"
The knight turned sharply. "You wouldn't!"
"He would," the elf replied, indicating Brother Gurim. "Can you stand by and let others die because of your stubbornness?"
The Oath and Measure of the knighthood said otherwise. To allow others to die in his place would be tantamount to cowardice.
"The boy can be saved," Nelk said softly. "Brother Gurim wants you, not him."
To prove that a cleric could make a Solamnic Knight yield his principles. To make a knight bow to the cleric's will. Brother Gurim's countenance might be expressionless, but his eyes were not. The senior inquisitor would order the boy's death if Arryl rejected his demands.
Arryl turned away, faced Nelk. "What will happen to the boy?" the knight asked.
"A mix-up. He should have been sent to work cleaning the temple floors for a month in order to make his penance. These things happen." Nelk shrugged. "Sometimes the mistakes are rectified, sometimes not."
Holy Istar! Arryl thought bitterly. There was no choice. The Oath and Measure demanded he protect the innocent from harm. "I agree, providing you personally guarantee the boy's life."
"It will be guaranteed. I swear to that. You have not dealt with the eccentricities of the inquisitor as I have. He will be happy to give the boy back his life, if only to prove how benevolent he can be."
There was relief in Nelk's eyes, a strange thing, the knight noted. The elf removed the mace from its resting place and, turning it upside down, sank the head into the dirt.
It was a signal, a signal of Arryl's defeat. The moment the mace touched the ground, the inquisitor rose and departed the arena. No backward glance, no lingering. Brother Gurim had seen his adversary bend knee to him and that was all the cleric wanted. For now.
The maimed elf smiled. "Pick up your sword and join us. I want to see what you can do."
Tremaine knelt and picked up the sword that had been handed him each day. They will see what I can do, he vowed. He had been forced to this decision, but now that the barrier had been breached, he had no intention of holding back. The gladiators would see what it was like to face a true knight.
Brother Gurim would see what being a Knight of Solamnia truly meant.
Nelk made certain Arryl was present when the city guard marched the boy away. It took some time for the guard to explain to an annoyed Arack that there had been a mistake. The dwarf evidently did not like mistakes. He lit into the hapless guard commander with a tongue that lashed out as hard as his fists. Tremaine could see that Arack's anger was genuine. This helped convince the knight that the boy would indeed receive lighter punishment.
"I gave you my word," said Nelk.
It was on that same day, shortly after the boy's removal, that the swordmaster issued his challenge to the knight.
Sylverlin watched the two duel with avid, jealous attention. He did not interrupt, but stood patiently by. Nelk finally called a halt. "What is it you want, Sylverlin?"
The tip of the snaky human's sword pointed at the knight. "I've come for him. I need to see if he'll be ready for the Games."
Arryl, still burning over the half-elf's murder, started forward. Nelk darted between the two.
"He'll be ready. I will see to him."
"You?" Sylverlin scowled. "You're mistaken, friend Nelk. This one is definitely mine."
"It is you who are mistaken, friend Sylverlin."
Sylverlin glanced at the wary knight. "A pity," he said, shrugging. "I'd hoped that our blades might cross. Now, no such luck. You'll be dead before I get the chance."
Arryl would have replied, but Nelk was quicker. He brought the mace around and pushed the swordmaster's blade away. "Never wish ill, Sylverlin. The gods have a habit of returning such wishes to their makers."
The serpentine fighter laughed, bowed mockingly to the knight, and left without another word. Arryl was barely able to restrain himself from charging after.
"He has marked you for his own sport. This changes everything," Nelk muttered.
Tremaine studied the elf's features. A sense of foreboding washed over him as he noted his companion's dark expression. "What do you mean?"
"Sylverlin has never really cared about those I choose to fight. But you, Knight, are something special to him. He hates your kind and always has. He murdered the last knight quickly enough. Some say he is one of your castoffs. Who knows? The only man he wants to fight more than you is me and that is forbidden to him. Sylverlin never argues with Brother Gurim."