The Reign Of Istar (3 page)

“Why did you not call the guardsmen?”

“They wouldn't have arrived in time. A man's life was in danger.”

“So you say.” The cleric sounded skeptical.

Arryl's temper rose a bit at the thought that someone would dare question his word, but he
reminded himself that the priest did not know he was a Knight of Solamnia.

“Is the sword your weapon?” The cleric pointed at the blade lying on the street.

“I had no weapon. These belonged to them.”

The cleric was genuinely impressed. “You took on two men without a weapon?”

Tremaine shrugged. “I am a Knight of Solamnia, a Knight of the Sword. I have been trained
to fight with or without weapons. The two who attacked were hardly a threat.” Arryl
shrugged. “Swords and knives in the hands of novices are generally more dangerous to
themselves than to anyone else.”

The city guardsmen glanced at each other and muttered among themselves. The cleric
demanded quiet. Arryl noted the silver stripe running across the man's chest, the same
stripe he had seen on Brother Gurim and several other clerics since his arrival. He
wondered briefly about its meaning, but the priest demanded his attention again.

“Your name, Solamnian?” “I am Arryl Tremaine.” “Arryl Tremaine, I want you to come with
us.” “Excuse me, Brother, but I would like to return to my quarters. I have been negligent in the performance of my evening prayers.”

The cleric smiled. “I commend your dedication, but this is a matter of justice. The laws
of His Holiness and the great Paladine have been broken. Surely you see that this is of
much greater import than missing one day of prayer?”

Arryl hesitated, then nodded. The cleric had a point. The law had been broken and Tremaine
was a witness. Likely they wanted him to testify against the two.

“Come, then, Sir Knight,” said the cleric pleasantly. “Walk beside me. It is not often
that we have one of our Solamnic brothers among us.”

VERY UNDERSTANDABLE, Tremaine thought. When he left Istar tomorrow, he certainly would
never be back.

The city guardsmen suddenly closed in around him and jostled him roughly. Angered at their
effrontery, Arryl started to reach for his sword, then reminded himself that not only was
he not the prisoner, but that his sword was back in his quarters.

*****

To his astonishment, the guardsmen took him to the Temple of Paladine.

“Why are we here?” Tremaine asked. “I would have thought felons would be taken to the
headquarters of the city guard.”

The emaciated priest, who still had not introduced himself, gave Arryl a look that said
that only a foreigner would ask such a question. “The city guard is the physical arm of
justice. Defining and overseeing the law is a matter for the Order of Paladine.”

Despite the merit of the statement, the Solamnian had his doubts. “You have not yet
explained my purpose here. Am I to act as witness?”

“That is up to the inquisitors to decide.” INQUISITORS? Arryl disliked the sound of that.
The temple itself was as splendid as anything in Istar.

Immense marble columns rose high in the air. Intricate friezes representing both the
history of Istar and Paladine's glory decorated the walls. Sculptures and other valuable
artifacts lined the halls. The temple had been built long before the present Kingpriest.
The additions made since his rise to power were gaudy and seemed out of place. His banners
and masks were everywhere, but here the true wonder of Paladine overwhelmed that of his
servant, as was only proper.

A pair of tall silver - TRUE silver - doors led to the chamber where the inquisitors meted
out justice. Tremaine and the others waited for several minutes, the knight trying not to
grow impatient.

The doors suddenly swung open. Two large acolytes, armed with very solid-looking maces,
pushed the doors aside and stood guard. One of them nodded to Arryl's guide.

“Enter.”

The guards shoved Arryl forward, as if HE were the prisoner ! He glared at them angrily.

The room was lit by only a handful of torches, but it was still enough light to allow
Arryl Tremaine to study his surroundings. The contrast between this chamber and the rest
of the temple was astonishing. It seemed that the original builders had forgotten to finish this room once the walls were up. To be sure,
the familiar banners and masks commemorating the Kingpriest were present, but little else.
The only furniture consisted of a table and three chairs atop a dais.

The doors behind them closed.

Three hooded and robed figures entered from a side door that the knight had not noticed in
the dim light. They all wore the same robes that Brother Gurim and the cleric beside him
wore, white with a silver stripe running across the chest. Tremaine guessed now what that
symbol meant. These specific clerics served as the keepers of justice in the Kingpriest's
city.

Their hoods masking their features, the three newcomers sat down in the chairs and faced
the group. The one in the center clasped his hands together and asked, “Is this the one
involved in the struggle, Brother Efram?”

Arryl's companion stepped through the line of guards and took a position two or three feet
in front. The knight tried to follow him, but the soldiers formed a tight ring around him.
Arryl frowned, but did nothing more, assuming that this was merely a matter of protocol.

Brother Efram bowed respectfully and answered, “This is the one.”

The spokesman for the triumvirate signaled someone beyond the side doorway. Arryl was
shocked to see the two men he had beaten enter on their own. The knight was the one being
guarded!

“This is the man?” the center figure asked them. They nodded. “You are dismissed.” The two
departed. The hooded clerics focused their attention on Arryl, who was growing extremely angry. He was forced to remind himself he
was in a temple of Paladine.

“You are Arryl Tremaine, Knight of Solamnia?” the cleric demanded.

“I am!” he answered proudly.

The center cleric folded his hands together again. “You appreciate the letter of the law,
do you not, Sir Knight?”

“I do. What - ” “Then you realize that you have transgressed.” “I - ” Arryl stiffened. He
could hardly believe what he was hearing. “I am INNOCENT of wrongdoing! What do you mean by saying that I have
transgressed?”

A second inquisitor spoke. “Arryl Tremaine, you are charged with preventing two members of
the city guard from performing their duties. Further, you assaulted and injured both
soldiers.”

“This is preposterous!” Tremaine retorted. “They were beating an unarmed man senseless!
When I called to them to stop, they did not identify themselves. They attacked me! I
defended myself!”

“Where is this third man?” asked the same cleric.

“I ...” Tremaine had no answer. His only witness had vanished during the struggle. “How
could I know these men were guardsmen? I am innocent! This is madness!”

“None of us are truly without sin,” the center cleric intoned. The third inquisitor, who
had not spoken yet, nodded agreement. The spokesman added, “And you of all people, Knight
of Solamnia, should know that ignorance of the law is no excuse. Think of the chaos if we
allowed that.”

For Arryl Tremaine, the world ceased to be. All that existed for him were the three men
and their incredible accusations. What was HAPPENING here?

They took him then, realizing he was weakest at this moment. Two guards caught hold of his
arms and pinned them, while two more clamped manacles around his wrists, ankles, and
throat. Arryl was too proud to resist; against so many, his struggles would have been
useless. In less than a minute, the knight was shackled.

“Arryl Tremaine,” said the inquisitor, “you have been found guilty of crimes against the
laws set down by the Kingpriest of Istar and Paladine himself. To argue against those laws
is to argue against your very faith.”

Arryl said nothing, his mind dazed as he tried to understand what was happening.

“You are hereby sentenced to the Games, there to train and fight for your eventual freedom
... if Paladine deems you worthy of salvation.”

THE GAMES? As with everything else, even Arryl's sentence bordered on the absurd, the
unbelievable. The Games were death itself, senseless, bloody conflicts that were AGAINST
the laws of Paladine, as set forth in the Oath and the Measure.

“Place him in a cell for the night and see to it that he is sent to the arena first thing
in the morning,” the inquisitor ordered. Brother Efram bowed. To Arryl, the inquisitor
said, “May the Kingpriest watch over your soul, Sir Knight”

The three hooded clerics rose. Arryl shook free his guards' hands and marched out, glaring
balefully at the inquisitors. His mind noted and locked on one feature concerning the
third inquisitor, the silent one. Arryl tried to hold back to get a better look, but the
guards shoved him toward the doors.

Nonetheless, Tremaine was certain that the third inquisitor - and ONLY the third
inquisitor - had worn a thin, elegant pair of gloves.

*****

Arryl Tremaine stood outside the tall walls of the arena, staring at it with disgust and
loathing. Until his misguided pilgrimage to Istar, he had considered the Games the one
aberration, the one pit of darkness he had been willing to admit existed in the holy
center.

Certainly he had not thought to ever find himself inside, sentenced to fight for a crime
he had not committed. Now he was just one among a group of dour men, standing in a wagon
that had drawn up just outside of the stonework leviathan. The arena looked massive enough
to seat every citizen of Istar. From where he stood, he could see a portion of the field
where men killed one another for the amusement of the masses.

In Istar, holiest of holy places.

“Step down, step down!” ordered an ugly, scarred dwarf, who apparently was in charge of
the arena. “My name is Arack. This here is Raag.” Raag was an ogre. Yellowish of skin, he
was taller than even the tall Tremaine and had a warty face that Arryl doubted even the
proverbial mother could love. The ogre was the most monstrous thing the Solamnic warrior
had ever come across.

The knight, with his proud air and stiff, upright stature, stood out in comparison to the
slouchy, slovenly half-dozen others. Most had the hang-dog expression of long-time felons.
Arryl took an interest in only two - a boy dressed in motley, who obviously had no idea
what was going to happen to him, and a half-elf, whose face was that of a man who knows he is doomed. Having
studied the rest during the short, bleak trip from his cell to this place, Arryl guessed
that most would not survive long enough to win their freedom.

Arryl Tremaine glanced about and grimaced at the ex terior of the arena, adorned with the
benevolent visage of the Kingpriest. Brother Gurim came immediately to mind.

BROTHER GURIM. The rat-faced cleric was responsible for his being sentenced to this place,
of that Arryl was certain. A night in a dank prison cell had been long enough for the
Solamnic warrior to question the law and authority by which he had been judged. Something
was amiss. It was too coincidental that the same man who had spoken to the young knight
only a day prior, and who had overheard what Arryl was forced to admit may have been
injudicious remarks about Istar, should be one of the inquisitors at his sudden, mad trial.

Marble masks lined the arena walls, each visage gazing down in sculpted tenderness upon
the monarch's spiritual children when they entered on the days of the Games. Through the
open gateway Arryl could see the faces that adorned the inside of the arena. Probably the
countenance of each succeeding monarch replaced that of his predecessor. Not at all to
Arryl's surprise, he saw very little tribute to Paladine.

Once again, Tremaine wondered whether Istar, stronghold of Paladine, had forgotten exactly
who it was its citizens were supposed to worship.

“You there!” The dwarf walked up to him. For one of the hill folk, Arack was surprisingly
lean, like a small cat. Knowing the strength of Arack's kind, Arryl wondered if he could
take the dwarf in combat. One did not gain authority in an arena without some prowess.
“Which are you?”

“I am Arryl Tremaine.”

“The knight.” The dwarf looked him over, pausing at one point to eye Tremaine's flowing,
well-groomed Solamnic moustache. “Yer in good shape. Last o' yer kind I saw looked more
like a merchant man than a fighter. Round as a tub.”

Raag laughed. Arryl kept silent, figuring the dwarf was only trying to provoke him into a
fight.

“I understand you took on two of the city guard,”

Arack pursued. “I did what I thought was right. I did not know they were guardsmen,“ Arryl replied sternly. The dwarf snorted. ”Yeah, that's what they all
say!”

Arack pointed the knight out to the other prisoners. “Ya see this man? Fought the city
guard. Beat 'em. both ... and bare-handed, yet!”

There was a subtle movement away from the Solamnian, as if anyone who had crossed the
guard was unclean.

“What's yer best weapon?” the dwarf asked, all business again. His eyes sparkled with some
scheme.

Arryl had the uncomfortable feeling the scheme involved him. “Sword.”

“Just that? 'Sword,' he says. Any particular TYPE of sword?”

“Broadsword. Short sword.” Tremaine decided not to tell him more.

Scratching his chin, Arack considered. “You'll be going to Nelk's bunch, then.”

“I will not fight. I will not become a part of this barbaric ritual! This place, these
Games, are an affr - ”

“You'll go to Nelk's group, whatever you end up doin'!” That was the end of the
discussion, as far as Arack was concerned. He stepped away from the knight and moved on to
the half-elf, who was surreptitiously observing the Solamnian.

Arryl Tremaine knew that arguing would be a waste for now. He kept quiet, turned his mind
to other matters. He wondered what Master Brek would think when he did not return. It
occurred to him that maybe the innkeeper knew exactly what had happened to the knight,
perhaps had had a hand in it.