The Reign Of Istar (4 page)

The fight ... outside the inn ... No, Arryl couldn't believe something so monstrous, not
even of Brother Gurim. The knight wondered about his belongings....

MY ARMOR! Arryl was horrified that he could have gone so long without thinking of the
armor passed down from his grandfather. “Master Arack!” he called.

The dwarf glanced over his shoulder. “What do you want, Sir Knight?” he asked with a sneer.

“My armor! What has become of it?” “The guard'll return it to ya, if it's decided ya should wear it in the arena! Now keep yer place!” The city guard DID have his belongings, then.
Arryl was most concerned with the armor. Those who had seen him ride into Istar in full armor
might have thought him an elegant, rich knight, but the truth was that, while the House of
Tremaine was not poor, like so many of its cousins, it had learned to be frugal. He had
been fortunate in that his grandfather's suit had fit him with very little alteration and
had also borne the symbol of the order to which the young Tremaine had always aspired to
join. Among many Houses of Solamnia, armor, when still serviceable, was a treasure to be
handed down until the day when someone else might be able to don it.

Of course, if such a suit did not fit, then a new one had to be put together. Some knights
preferred new armor. Arryl considered it an honor to wear the armor of a noble ancestor.

There was nothing he could do about his armor, save hope that someone in the city guard
did not take a fancy to it.

Raag's leering visage loomed before him. The ogre's rancid breath struck Arryl like one
slap after another. “Knight!” Raag grinned, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. “You come.”

“Take these two as well,” Arack called, jabbing a thumb at the half-elf and the
confused-looking boy, dressed in the sort of loose, colorful clothing worn by peasants in
the villages far to the southwest of Istar. Arryl recalled hearing that those places were
very relaxed in their worship of the gods. They were even said to worship the gods of
neutrality, despite the Kingpriest's efforts to alter their thinking. Arryl wondered what
sort of crime brought a mere boy, who couldn't be more than fourteen, to the arena and how
the gawking boy was expected to take part in the Games.

The Games at this time consisted of both live combat and tournament battle, with more of
the former than the latter. The difference between the two was that “live” combat usually
meant “live” death as well. Tournament battles were fought between gladiators of
exceptional skill, who were too valuable to let themselves get killed, and generally ended
when one of the men was disarmed. None of the prisoners were to be a part of those
tournaments. The Games Arryl and his fellows had been chosen to play would be very, very real.

Raag led them into the arena and out onto the field. The sound of two weapons ringing
against one another was almost deafening. A group of fighters - obviously veteran
gladiators - stood in a circle, cheering on two combatants. The battle sounds stirred
something inside Arryl. He craned his head to see. It was evident from the frequency of
the strikes that here were two opponents who not only fought with speed, but with skill.

Despite the noise, someone noticed Raag's approach. It paid to notice the ogre before one
became a temporary obstacle in his path. The gladiators gave way for the oncoming ogre.
Arryl made a quick study of the men. Hardened fighters all, but lacking in the grace and
elegance of a knight. If not for the arena, many of them would have ended up mercenaries
or highwaymen. More than a few had probably worked as one or both during the course of
their lives.

Raag, gruff as ever, turned to Arryl and pointed at the duelist to the left.

“Nelk. Arack say, you fight with Nelk.” Arryl stared, amazed. Nelk was an elf. A maimed
elf. Arryl wondered about the sort of elf who would deal in death, decided he must be a dark elf, one of the outcasts of elven
society.

Tremaine studied Nelk. He seemed no different from the few elves the knight had met,
except that the arrogant, delicate features were marred by a sardonic twist of the mouth,
as if Nelk - that could not be his true name - had seen too much of the world and not
found it to his liking. But he handled a mace with a skill becoming that of a Solamnic
master, a necessary skill, since the elf lacked the lower half of his right arm and could
not, therefore, have used a shield to any real purpose. His natural grace and agility also
served to compensate for his physical handicap.

Nelk's opponent was a human, a thin, brown-haired man who both looked and moved like a
snake. He fought with a sword and Arryl, who took an instant dislike to the serpentine
man, grudgingly had to admit he was skilled.

It was a strange duel, mace against sword. Both men were caught up in their practice and
it was evident that here were two masters. Arryl forgot his troubles, watching the two skilled fighters at work.
Although Nelk had only one arm, his mace was nearly three feet long. He moved with a speed
that few humans could match. His heavier adversary compensated for a lack of elven speed
by utilizing both sword and shield as few men in the knighthood could have managed.

The weapons clanged together again and again, never remaining motionless. Each time one
duelist seemed about to break through the defenses of the other, a counterassault brought
them back to their standoff.

Then, Arryl saw the human make a blunder. An over- extension of his arm left his side
vulnerable. It was a very slight mistake, but a master such as Nelk should have been able
to capitalize on it easily.

Nelk ignored it. The gap in the human's defenses vanished instantly. Once again the two
were on even footing.

“Hold, Sylverlin!” The elf stepped back, still guarding himself. His serpentine
counterpart did the same. Both men saluted each other, then smiled grimly. Nelk was not
breathing hard at all; his human adversary seemed only slightly put out by the strenuous
activity. Arryl silently applauded their abilities.

Turning, the elf eyed the newcomers. The rest of the gladiators melted away as he walked
over to inspect the small group Raag had brought him. “What is this?”

“Arack said,” was all the ogre commented.

“Mine, then.” The elf surveyed the trio of prisoners. He seemed amused by the boy, and
sneered at the half-elf. Most elves - even dark ones - looked down upon half- breeds as
being less than either of the two races from which they had sprung.

Nelk paused when he came to Arryl. “You are a fighter, I see.”

“Solamnian,” Raag offered. “Ah. The knight,” said Sylverlin, coming up behind. Both
instructors studied Tremaine with interest. Tremaine straightened. “I will not fight in
your Games.“ ”Won't you?“ Nelk shrugged. ”We'll see. Arack gave you to me and that is all that matters.“ ”Too good for us?” Sylverlin hissed. He even
sounded like a serpent. “Arack waits,” Raag grunted. Satisfied that Nelk was now in charge of the
three, the ogre turned and departed without another word. Nelk watched him go, seeming to appraise
the ogre's every movement.

“He'd still beat you, my good friend,” the reptilian man commented offhandedly. “Raag's
quick in the head when he needs to be, not to mention having a skin as tough as a
breastplate.”

“I am well aware of both my limitations and his, Sylverlin. Best to worry about your own.
If we had been dueling to the death, I would have crushed your rib cage after that last
ploy of yours.”

“You mean the opening I left? Wasn't a mistake, my good friend.” Sylverlin bowed in
mockery to Arryl, then slid off in the opposite direction Raag had gone.

“I knew it was not,” the elf commented with a wry smile, his voice loud enough for the
knight to hear. “Why else would I have avoided it?” The elf's slanted eyes returned to
Arryl. “As for you, you will fight, human. You will fight for the simple reason that you
will die if you do not. You ... and others because of you.” His glance went, as if by
accident to the half-elf and the boy. “For now, you should get something to eat, I think.
You will need your strength today. That is a promise. Go with them.”

He pointed to several gladiators who leered at the newcomers and made crude comments about
“last meals” Arryl stiffened and reached for a sword that wasn't at his side. Nelk laughed
and sauntered away.

The half-elf leaned toward Arryl and whispered, “They will kill us on the spot if you
choose to give them trouble now! Best to live and find a better moment, human!”

Tremaine reluctantly gave in and started walking. The half-elf's words made sense to him,
but he wondered exactly when that better moment might come. Escape seemed impossible. The
arena was well protected;

archers and sentries were everywhere.

An indrawn breath from the half-elf made Tremaine shift his gaze. “What is it?”

“The senior inquisitor is up in the stands with the arena masters!” his companion
muttered. “Pray he is not here concerning us! If so, we go from having little chance to NONE!” Following the direction of the other prisoner's eyes, the knight focused on a man who had been watching the duel between Nelk and Sylverlin from the
stands.

Brother Gurim!

Arryl Tremaine tripped and nearly fell. He stared and stared at the rat-eyed priest. Arryl
was certain now. He had stepped into a nightmare whose master was the gloved cleric.

Was this TRULY what Istar had become? *****

Sylverlin marched Arryl out into the arena after the meal and handed the knight a sword.
Arryl dropped it at the man's feet. Sylverlin told him to pick it up. Arryl told him the
same thing he had told the elf earlier: “I will not fight.” The knight fully expected to
be beaten or tortured. Sylverlin clenched his fist, seeming to enjoy the idea.

“Leave him be,” ordered Nelk. He made Tremaine stand aside while the elf took the half-elf
and the boy and added them to another group of mixed unfortunates. Sylverlin glowered,
obviously disappointed. He obeyed Nelk, however, though he flashed the elf a vicious
glance that Nelk saw but ignored. The abandoned sword remained at the knight's feet, as if
a challenge of some sort. Arryl folded his arms and stood unmoving the rest of the
afternoon.

At the end of the day, he again expected to be punished. Nelk ordered Arryl into the line
with the others. That was all. No mention of punishment. Sylverlin joined Nelk; the two
seemed as attached as two branches of the same tree. They walked off together, now
apparently the best of friends.

During the evening meal, the half-elf chose to join Arryl. No one else sat near them. The
other men, both veteran gladiators and newcomers, were unwilling to sit next to either a
Solamnic warrior who had fought the city guard or a half-elf whose crime was the fact that
he existed. The only one who seemed to want to join them was the peasant boy, who also sat
alone. He gave the two of them a shy, nervous smile, obviously hoping to be invited.
Tremaine started to signal him over, but his companion shook his head. “I would like to talk to you alone. My name is Fen Sunbrother,“ the half-elf said in a low voice. He had a swarthy complexion and his mixed
background gave him exotic features. A thin beard attested to the fact that his human half
had at least some dominance. ”What are you called?”

Tremaine hesitated. While Solamnia had been built on the principles of justice and
fairness, mixed breeds like Fen Sunbrother were not accepted members of society. It may
have been that his own desperate situation made the knight more tolerant, for he found
himself replying, “I am Arryl Tremaine.”

“We are both outcasts, it appears.” Fen indicated the empty benches around them. “You
hardly seem the type who should be here. Knight of Solamnia, yes?”

“I am a Knight of the Order of the Sword.”

“Thought that.” Fen glanced warily around, as if he expected someone to be spying on their
conversation. “You need not tell me, but I would be interested to know for what reason you
are here.”

“I am innocent of wrongdoing. I came to the aid of a man being beaten. I did not know the
bullies beating him were city guardsmen.”

The half-elf gave him a sour smile. “Crime enough here, depending on the situation. Tell
me about it.”

Arryl did, leaving nothing out. After a day of having no one willing to hear his side, he
was gratified to find a sympathetic ear. Fen Sunbrother listened, and as he listened, his
expression turned dark and bitter.

“I have all the luck. I am constantly allying myself with those who draw the ire of the
mighty.” The half-elf took a bite of his food, grimaced, but swallowed it nonetheless. The
food at the arena was designed to keep the men fit enough to fight; taste was not a
priority. “You have brought the attention of the inquisitors down upon you. Worse, you
have attracted the personal wrath of Brother Gurim.”

“What have I done to the man?”

“What have you done? It could be any number of things” Fen poked the gruel with his
finger. The hole formed did not fill in when he pulled the finger out. “The worst part of
being in the arena is not the possibility of death - it's the food.”

Arryl did not smile.

The half-elf shrugged. “There is something that you must understand, Tremaine. In Istar,
the clerics are the law. Among the clerics, the inquisitors are justice. It is they who
define the words of the Kingpriest and how those words affect the citizens.”

“Would that they were as concerned with the word of Paladine as much as that of the
Kingpriest,” said Arryl sternly.

Fen's eyes widened, then he nodded in understanding. “You knights are very strong in your
faith, not to mention vocal about it. You've been talking like that for the past few days,
haven't you?”

“What of it? I am within my rights - ”

“In SOLAMNIA, you would be within your rights, but not here....” Fen shook his head.
“Istar is another matter. A Solamnic Knight, one of the legendary warriors of justice and
good, rides into the holy city and finds it not so holy. Small wonder that you incurred
the wrath of Brother Gurim. To him, you are a threat to the order.”